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The 

Conning   Tower 

Book 


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SEYMOUR   DURST 


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When  you  leave,  please  leave  this  book 

Because  it  has  been  said 
"Sver'thing  comes  t'  him  who  waits 

Except  a  loaned  book." 


OLD    YORK    LIBRARY   -   OLD    YORK     FOUNDATION 


,\\  I  \<\  ARCHITECTURAL  AND  FINE  ARTS  LIBRARY 

Gil  i  oi  Seymoi  r  B.  Di  rsi  Oi  dYork  Library 


The 

Conning  Tower 

Book 


"Being  a  selection  of  the 

best  verses  published  in 

The   Conning    Tower, 

edited  by 

F.  P.  A. 

in  The  New  York  World 


Macy  -  Masius  :  Publishers  New  York 


TAtf  verses  printed  in  this  book 
appeared  originally  in  The  New 
York  Mail,  The  New  York 
Tribune  and  The  World,  to  the 
publishers  of  which  acknowledg- 
ment is  extended. 

THE      CONNING      TOWER      BOOK 

COPYRIGHT       1926      BY      MACY- 

MASIUS:    PUBLISHERS 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Table  of  Contents 


Dedication 
Ballade  of  Envy 
The  Study  Hour 
Song  of  the  Motorist 
The  Vernal  Urge 
To  Be  Continued 

Sehnsucht 

Anacreon  to  the  Sophist 

The  Mother's  Prayer 

The  Blue  Hen's  Chickens 

To  Maury  a 

Ballade  of  the  Table  D'Hote 

The  Curse  of  Faint  Praise 

An  Epic  of  Gotham 

To  One  Departed 

Loon  River  Anthology 

The  Poltroon 

To  Aristotle  in  Maytime 

The  Elusive  Motif 

Psychoanalyzed 

"Amo,  Amas,  Amat" 

The  Groaning  Board 

Song  of  a  Regular  New  York 

Guy 
One  Spake  to  Helen 
To  the  Vers  Librists 
Sestina  of  the  Fliv 
To  a  Bookworm 
Ragged  Days 
Pre-eminence 
Sense 


Lee  Wilson  Dodd  14 

Ted  Robinson  15 

Flaccus — Baron  Ireland  16 

W.  J.  D.  18 

Yip  19 
Julian  Street,  James 

Montgomery  Flagg,  et  al.        20 

Squdge  23 

B.  H.  24 

Kathleen  N orris  25 

Arthur  Guiterman  26 

Isosceles  29 

G.  S.  K.  30 

Irwin  31 

Lester  32 

Lee  Hingston  34 

Lee  Wilson  Dodd  35 

Sarah  C leghorn  37 
Margaret  Hamilton  Wagenhals  38 

Dunton  40 

R.  N.  S.  41 

Murdock  Pemberton  42 

Pink  43 


Morton 

44 

S.  K.  R. 

45 

Quintus 

46 

H.  G.  F. 

48 

Freckles— E.  J.  M. 

49 

Irwin 

50 

Murdock  Pemberton 

52 

Adul  Tima 

52 

THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Table  ^Contents 
(Continued) 


To  Thaliarchus 

The  Cosmic  Urge 

The  Daffodils 

A  Grub  Street  Recessional 

Testament 

I    Never    Did    Git    to    Go    to 

Omaha 
The  Limit,  Limited 
The  Motorist's  Guide 
Home  Defence 

The  Death  of  Klondike  Jack 
Threnody 

The  Doughboy  and  the  Gob 
The  Squanderers 
An  Intermezzo  for  the  Fourth 

Act 
"Haec  Olim  Meminisse  Iuvabit" 
The  Sons  of  Mary 
The  Wide  Open  Spaces 
A  Ballad  of  the  Great  War 
Ballade  for  Missionaries 
The  Clown 
Thais 
Song  for  John  Howard  Payne 

Week 
The  Pigeon-Scarer 
La  Derniere  Chanson 
A  Village  Idyl 
Wild  Plum 

"Never  Pick  Wild  Flowers" 
To  a  Girl,  Upon  Returning 
The  Italics  are  Macdonald's 
Toll  the  Bell  for  Damon 
To  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 


N. 

53 

P.W. 

54 

Emery  Pottle 

55 

Christopher  Morley 

57 

Dorothy  Parker 

58 

Alice  Mary  Kimball 

59 

Noemie 

60 

G.  S.  B. 

61 

William  Rose  Benet 

62 

Mother  Goose 

65 

Dorothy  Parker 

68 

C.A. 

69 

George  O'Neil 

72 

William  Allen  White 

73 

Smeed 

75 

G.  S.  B. 

78 

Oscar  H.  Lear 

80 

Flaccus 

82 

Squidge 

84 

J.  M.  S. 

85 

Flaccus 

86 

J.Q. 

89 

John  V.  A.  Weaver 

90 

Isosceles 

91 

Lester  Mark  el 

92 

Adul  Tim  a 

95 

John  V.  A.  Weaver 

96 

George  Jester 

97 

Marc  Connelly 

99 

Maxwell  Anderson 

100 

Witter  Bynner 

101 

THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Table  oj 

?  Contents 

(Continued) 

A  Story-Teller's  Chantey 

Samuel  Merwin 

102 

Confession 

Fritz 

105 

To  a  New-Born  Infant 

Baron  Ireland 

106 

Sonnet 

The  Unvarying  Shore 

107 

To  the  Younger  Generation 

Lee  Wilson  Dodd 

108 

Greek  Temples 

Irwin 

110 

Them  Was  the  Nights 

J.  V.  H. 

111 

Annotation 

Eleanor 

112 

The  Seddons 

P.  w. 

113 

Poems  in  Praise  of  Practically 

Nothing 

Samuel  Hoffenstein 

115 

A  Copyreader's  Dream  of  Fair 

Women 

Long  John  Silver 

117 

The  City  of  Towers 

George  O'Neil 

119 

Die  Walkuere 

Flaccus 

120 

Ku  Klux 

Arthur  Guiterman 

123 

Snowfall 

L  V.  S.  W. 

124 

Poems  in  Praise  of  Practically 

Everything 

Samuel  Hoffenstein 

125 

Triolet 

J.  0.  L. 

126 

In  Memoriam 

Lee  Wilson  Dodd 

127 

Lines  on  Reading  D.  H.  Law- 

rence, et  al. 

John  Haynes  Holmes 

128 

Advice  to  Youth 

Countee  P.  Cullen 

129 

Contrarious 

R.P. 

130 

Poems  of  Passion,  Carefully  Re- 

strained to  Offend  Nobody 

Samuel  Hoffenstein 

131 

The  Cluricaun 

Marc  Connelly 

133 

Epitaph  for  a  Bad  Girl 

A.  D.  F. 

136 

Songs  About  Life 

Samuel  Hoffenstein 

137 

Fourth  Dimension 

Gelett  Burgess 

139 

The  Modest  Bard 

A.S. 

140 

A  Rime  of  an  Ancient  Gentle- 

man 


G.  S.  B. 


141 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Table  of  Contents 
(Continued) 


Poet  Accepting  a  Laurel  Wreath 

Arthur  Davison  Ficke 

143 

Susie  to  Her  Ex-Young  Man 

Ethel  M.  Kelley 

144 

Explicit:  To  Helen 

George  Jester 

146 

When  West  Comes  East 

Corey  Ford 

147 

The  Lovers 

A.S. 

148 

Gratitude 

Arturo 

149 

He  Is  not  Desecrate 

David  Morton 

150 

The  Cradle 

Gelett  Burgess 

151 

I  Know 

Robert  L.  Wolfe 

152 

Songs  of  Fairly  Utter  Despair 

Samuel  Hoffenstein 

153 

To  A.  B.  C. 

Eleanor  Chase 

155 

Daphne  and  Apollo 

George  Jester 

156 

Resolution 

Wiolar 

160 

Doomsday  Morning 

Genevieve  Tag  gar  d 

161 

Freud  in  New  England 

Anchusa 

162 

Heroic  Ballad  1976 

Will  Irwin 

163 

Vigil 

L. 

167 

Songs  to  Break  the  Tedium 

Samuel  Hoffenstein 

168 

Legend 

Adul  Tima 

171 

Variation  on  an  Old  Theme 

M.  A. 

172 

Dilemma 

Viola  Brothers  Shore 

173 

Oh  Take  This  Little  Song 

Martha 

175 

Advice  to  a  Young  Prophet 

J.  M.  S. 

175 

The  Reversible  Metaphor 

Troubadour 

176 

Battery  Park 

L. 

177 

Happy  Thought 

Gertrude  Pahlow 

178 

Beatrice  Dead 

M.  A. 

179 

Klan  Song 

Morrie 

180 

The  Cynic 

Clair 

183 

To  a  Lot  of  Girls 

George  Jester 

184 

Ballade  of  Big  Plans 

Dorothy  Parker 

185 

Planting  Bulbs 

Clair 

186 

In  Sano  Corpore 

E.E. 

187 

THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Table  of  Contents 
(Continued) 


And  I  Shall  Never  Trace  this 

Path  Again 
The  Cerebralists  Describe  a 

Woman 
The  Swamp  Angel 
To  a  Sentimental  Poet 
A  Critic 

The  Law  of  Averages 
Random  Advice  to  My  Son 
Paradise  Lost 

Sehnsucht;  or  What  You  Will 
Light  of  Love 
Allegro 

Wagnerian  Love 
Martha  in  Meditation 
Song — With  Chimes 
Legend  from  Cabell 
Bayberry  Dips 
Heresy  for  a  Classroom 
Andre  Passes 

To  a  Girl  with  Two  Eyes 
Sun  Go  Parch  .    .    . 
An  Explanation 
The  Cheerful  Giver 
Shopping  Day 
For  Ninette 
Perhaps 

Some  Beautiful  Letters 
Song  of  Travel 
The  Armistice  Day  Parade 
Instructions  for  My  Funeral 
A    Mother    to   the    Mother    of 

God 
Anticipation 


M.  A. 


188 


Simonetta 

189 

Bert  on  Braley 

191 

Helene  Mullins 

192 

William  Foster  Elliot 

193 

Troubadour 

194 

Clair 

195 

Jake  Falstaff 

196 

Corinna 

197 

Dorothy  Parker 

198 

McM. 

199 

Helen  Choate 

200 

Kathleen 

201 

Mimi 

202 

Myrril 

203 

Ellen  Vane 

205 

Rolfe  Humphries 

206 

G.  S.  B. 

207 

George  Jester 

208 

Leonard  Cline 

209 

Arthur  Guiterman 

210 

John  McMaster 

211 

Orrick  Johns 

212 

Mimi 

213 

Julia  Glasgow 

214 

Dorothy  Parker 

215 

F.D. 

217 

Nancv  Boyd 

219 

H.M. 

221 

Mimi 

222 

Jonathan  Slocum 

223 

THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  11 


zA  foreword  from  The  ^Boss 

It  IS  A  SOURCE  of  daily  wonder,  the  columnist's  morn- 
ing mail.  For  it  is  the  mail,  more  than  anything  else, 
that  makes  the  columnist's  job  a  bright,  romantic 
adventure  instead  of  an  irksome  duty.  It  is  gambling, 
and  gambling  on  velvet.  There  may  be  nothing  in  the 
mail  that  is  worth  slitting  an  envelope  for ;  there  may  be 
anything  from  anybody  from  anywhere. 

Why  the  contributor  contributes  is  what  most 
querists,  especially  most  contributors,  want  to  know.  I 
know,  for  I  too  have  lived  in  that  Arcadia;  I  too  have 
known  what  it  was  to  get  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing (those  were  the  days  when  a  morning  paper  was 
a  morning  paper,  and  not  a  thing  that  you  could  buy 
on  the  street  at  nine  in  the  evening)  and  wait  for  the 
paper  to  be  delivered,  to  see  whether  I  had  made  the 
column  (B.  L.  T.'s,  it  was,  in  The  Chicago  Tribune). 
And  I  have  accepted  and  thrown  away  many  contribu- 
tions. 

It  is,  first  of  all,  vanity  that  makes  the  contributor 
send  in,  for  no  monetary  reward,  his  material.  Vanity, 
it  is  true,  with  many  qualifications  and  inflections;  but 
still  vanity.  For  the  column  is  a  proving  ground,  a 
tournament  field,  where  the  challenge  is  eternal,  con- 
tinuous. And  when  Morrie  or  Flaccus  or  Freckles  or 
A.  X.  M.  sees  a  paragraph  or  a  poem  in  Monday's 
column,  he  can  hardly  wait  until  Tuesday's  paper  is 


12  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

published,  that  his  poem  or  paragraph,  better,  more 
adroit,  wiser,  funnier,  or  bitterer,  may  appear.  A's 
ballade  on  Tuesday  was  well  enough,  but  wait  until 
he — and  the  rest  of  that  crowd — sees  my  chant  royal 
Wednesday!  C  landed  three  times  last  week;  I'll  land 
five  times  this  week. 

Too,  there  is  immediacy.  The  contributor  knows — 
and  if  he  is  a  professional  writer  it  weighs  with  him — 
knows  he  can  get  celerity  of  publication;  that  he  may 
write  something  this  afternoon  and  see  it  in  tomorrow's 
paper.  And  he  knows  that  if  he  sends  it  to  a  magazine 
he  will  have  to  wait  from  ten  days  to  two  years  before 
he — and  his  friends — may  see  it. 

There  is  another  aspect  of  vanity — the  attempt  to 
prove  that  the  columnist,  with  his  boasts,  conscious  and 
unconscious,  of  infallibility,  can  be  tricked.  Many 
professional  writers  have  told  me  that  they  have  sent 
me  things  under  assumed  names,  to  see  whether  I  knew 
good  stuff  when  I  saw  it,  and  to  find  out  whether  it 
was  merely  the  prestige  of  the  name  that  got  the  stuff 
printed.  I  may  add  that  my  record  is  pretty  good ;  never 
consciously  have  I  printed  anything  that  carried  a  big 
or  a  well-known  name  merely  on  that  account;  and 
never  have  I  thrown  away  a  professional  writer's  good 
(good  in  my  opinion)  stuff  that  was  signed  with  another 
name  or  initials. 

Daily  I  am  astounded  at  the  excellence  of  columnar 
contributions,  not  only  those  written  by  professional 
writers — and  I  think  even  the  professional  writers 
sometimes  do  their  best  work  for  Columns — but  also 
those  written  by  amateurs;  and  by  amateurs  who  write 
only  one  piece  in  their  lives  and  send  that  to  the 
columnist.      Frequently  I  meet  somebody  who  says, 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  13 

uYou  know,  you  printed  a  piece  of  mine  about  nine 
years  ago  at  the  top  of  the  Tower."  And  then  he  says 
it  is  the  only  thing  he  ever  wrote  and  that  he  never 
expects  to  write  another.  In  this  book  is  the  work  of 
many  such  one-piece  contribs. 

This  book,  as  I  was  going  to  say  in  the  first  para- 
graph, is  selected  from  columns  I  have  edited.  A  few 
of  the  selections  are  taken  from  as  far  back  as  1912, 
from  the  Evening  Mail ;  the  rest  from  Conning  Towers 
of  the  New  York  Tribune  and  the  New  York  World. 
To  those  newspapers  I  am  grateful  for  permission  to 
reprint  these  poems;  to  the  contributors,  both  the  few 
I  know  and  the  many  to  whose  identity  I  have  no  clue, 
I  am  abject.  I  am  grateful  that  they  should  have  sent 
me  the  things  to  print  in  the  paper;  but  the  unanimity 
of  those  I  have  been  able  to  consult  about  permission  to 
reprint  herein  is  cause  for  joyful  tears  of  thanksgiving. 

Thank  you,  dear  friends,  especially  if  your  stuff  is 
included  herein.  If  not,  it  is  because  of  my  stupidity — 
that  same  trait  which,  as  you  well  know,  often  has  kept 
your  verses  from  publication  in  The  Conning  Tower. 

AND— 

Go,  little  book,  though  not  a  line 
Upon  thy  printed  page  is  mine; 
Go  forth  by  steam  and  sail  and  wing, 
Go,  little  book,  like  anything. 

F.  P.  A. 


Dedication  for  a  Book  of  Conning  Tower 
Contributions 

Shepherd,  I  know  not  how  to  pen 

The  unhoneyed  lyric  imagistic: 
I  started  scribbling  verses  when 

Bards  labored  for  the  labial  distich; 

When  mellow  ousels  in  the  elm 

Fluted  and  lines  were  sweetly  liquid, 

Which  younger  connoisseurs  overwhelm 

With  scorn.    No  matter.     Though  the  quicquid 

Agunt  and  so  forth  changes,  yet 

There  is  still  room  for  us  old  fogies 
Who  cannot  [who  would  not)  forget 

Their  youth.  Nor  do  I  fear  the  bogies 

Of  "Blast"  or  "Broom"!    While  life  remains 

I  still  can  flute  and  pipe  and  tabor 
For  aging  ears  mine  antique  strains 

Until  hie  jacet  ends  hie  labor    .    .    . 

LEE  WILSON  DODD 


ballade  of  Envy 

You  are  a  genius,  F.  P.  A., 

And  I,  a  mere  columnar  guy. 
You  have  your,  what  you  might  call,  way — 

How  in  S.  H.  do  /  get  by? 

I  have  a  leave  to  stall  and  lie, 
And  my  untruths  do  please  His  Nibs 

The  Editor — what  boots  it?    Fie! 
I  would  I  had  your  good  contribs. 

I  would  that  on  the  morrow-day, 

When  I  of  fresh-caught  wit  am  shy, 
Some,  now,  GaSook,  like  G.  S.  K., 

Might  score  me  with  a  well-placed  fly. 

'Tis  dinner  time — yet,  though  I  try 
Full  feverish  for  flights  and  fibs, 

I'm  late  for  soup — nay,  e'en  for  pie! 
I  would  /  had  your  good  contribs! 

Lay  late,  considering  a  lay: 

And  so  to  breakfast  on  a  dry 
Indifferent  omelette,  where  I  pray 

My  wife  with  Mistress  A.  to  vie, 

And  do  my  stint:  but  she  doth  cry 
And  say,  poor  wretch,  e'en  now  her  ribs 

Show,  with  the  c.  of  1.  so  high. 
I  would  I  had  your  good  contribs! 

I've  one  whose  stuff  is  far  from  dry, 

But  I  suspect  the  fellow  cribs. 
Now  you've  gained  me — but  what  gain  I? 

I  would  I  had  your  GOOD  contribs! 

TED  ROBINSON 


16  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOO 


The  Study  Jfour 

A  blue-eyed  lad  was  seated 

Upon  his  father's  knee; 
With  an  open  book  before  him 

He  was  studying  history. 
He  read  of  men  who  saved  this  land 

With  doughty  hearts  and  blades — 
'Twas  Montgomery's  American  History 

For  the  Elementary  Grades. 
"Dear  Father,"  said  the  manly  lad, 

"I've  studied  long  in  vain, 
But  somehow  I  can't  get  the  stuff 

Into  my  little  brain." 
The  father  sadly  shook  his  head 

And  brushed  the  tear  away, 
And  then  unto  this  noble  youth 

These  words  to  him  did  say: 

CHORUS 

"George  Washington  was  the  Father  of  His  Country, 

Which  now  has  become  a  very  prominent  nation; 
Abraham  Lincoln  was  quite  celebrated — 

He  wrote  the  Emancipation  Proclamation. 
Alexander  Hamilton  wrote  the  Federalist, 

A  paper  which  was  down  on  crooks  and  graft. 
This  country  has  had  twenty-seven  Presidents, 

And  the  present  one  is  William  Howard  Taft." 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


17 


Next  night  again  our  hero 

Was  on  his  father's  knee, 
With  another  open  volume 

Studying  geography. 
He  read  of  many  a  sea  and  lake, 

Of  many  a  hill  and  valley — 
'Twas  The  Beginners'  Geography, 

Published  by  Rand,  McNally. 
"Dear  father,"  said  the  sturdy  son, 

"I've  studied  hard  and  long, 
But  somehow  I  can't  learn  those  things, 

Unless  I  learn  them  wrong." 
The  father  seemed  discouraged, 

But  soon  he  did  take  heart. 
And  then  unto  this  eager  boy 

Responded  thus  in  part: 

CHORUS 
"This  land  was  found  by  Christopher  Columbus; 

Bismarck  is  the  capital  of  North  Dakota; 
Tobacco,  cotton  and  rice  are  grown  in  Georgia ; 

Minneapolis  is  the  metropolis  of  Minnesota. 
This  earth  is  round  and  turns  upon  its  axis; 

An  isthmus  is  a  narrow  neck  of  land; 
Vermont  is  bounded  on  the  north  by  Canada, 

And  a  desert  is  entirely  made  of  sand." 

FLACCUS 
BARON  IRELAND 


18  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Song  of  The  Motorist 

Sing  ho,  for  the  highroad,  the  free  spaces  clean, 
And  the  tang  of  the  winter  wind,  frosty  and  keen ; 
When  our  heads  are  awhirl  and  our  senses  are  drunk 
With  the  wine  of  the  air  and  the  odor  of  punk 
Gasoline  I 

Like  the  sudden  awak'ning  of  primal  desires 

Bounds  the  wild,  surging  blood  through  our  veins;  and 

it  fires 
The  dull  brain,  as  we  scurry  through  woodland  and  dell 
With  a  speed  that  sends  leaping  the  heart,  and  playzell 
With  the  tires. 

How  our  muscles  are  taut  and  our  nerves  are  athrill 
As  we  conquer  the  steepness  and  length  of  the  hill! 
O,  the  throb  of  the  car  and  the  quivering  strength 
As  it  conquers  the  hill!    O,  the  steepness  and  length 
Of  the  bill. 

Still  we  whiz  and  we  whirr  without  slack,  without  stop, 
Though  the  daylight  may  fade  and  the  twilight  may 

drop, 
And  the  gray  forest  shadows  reecho  our  shout 
As  we  sound  the  strong  notes  of  our  glee,  and  look  out 
For  a  cop. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  19 

Nor  does  night  with  its  gathering  gloom  give  us  pause ; 

Through  Cimmerian  darkness  or  into  the  jaws 

Of  grim  Death  we  would  dash,  we  would  crash,  we 

would  slam. 
O,  the  clamoring  pulse  1  O,  the  madness! I  O,  damn 
The  State  laws!  11 

Can  the  long,  tempting  list  of  mundane  pleasures  show 
A  more  glorious  joy  than  the  motorists  know? 
That's  the  sport  for  a  man  with  the  dash  and  the  verve, 
With  the  red  blood  and  grit,  with  the  eye  and  the 

nerve — 
And  the  dough. 

W.  J.  D. 


The  ^Vernal  Urge 

Pop,  pop!  Two  little  buds  burst  forth. 
Flap,  flap!  Two  little  birds  flit  north. 
One  tiny  grass-blade,  through  with  his  nap, 
Merrily  waves  his  little  green  cap. 
Two  little  hearts  go  tippy-tap-tap.     .     .     . 
SPRING ! 

YIP 


20  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


To  lie  Continued 

(Started  by  Julian  Street  and  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 


I. 

Said  Opie  Read  to  E.  P.  Roe; 
"How  do  you  like  Gaboriau?" 
"I  like  him  very  much  indeed," 
Said  E.  P.  Roe  to  O.  P.  Read. 

II. 
Said  Inez  M.  to  Inez  G. : 
"With  suffragettes  do  you  agree?" 
"I  do,  for  I  am  one  of  them," 
Said  Inez  G.  to  Inez  M. 

E.  H. 

III. 
Said  Mr.  Schanck  to  F.  P.  A. : 
"What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Tanguay?" 

"I  think  Miss  T.  is  simply ," 

Said  F.  P.  A.  to  Mr.  Schanck. 

MR.  SCHANCK 

IV. 
Said  Eloise  to  Louise  L. : 
"I  think  them  Yanks  is  simply  swell." 
"I  rather  like  your  merry  wheeze," 
Said  Louise  L.  to  Eloise. 

G.  R.  V.  P. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  21 

V. 

Said  Ollie  James  to  Chollie  Ames: 
"Just  lamp  the  likeness  of  our  names!" 
"I've  got  no  time  for  silly  games," 
Said  Chollie  Ames  to  Ollie  James. 

VI. 
Said  Foo  Ling  Ching  to  Ching  Ling  Foo: 
"These  things  are  awful  hard  to  do." 
"I  don't  think  they  ain't  no  sech  thing," 
Said  Ching  Ling  Foo  to  Foo  Ling  Ching. 


C.  G.  B. 


VII. 
Said  Tweedledum  to  Tweedledee : 
"They're  imitating  you  and  me." 
"We  certainly  are  going  some," 
Said  Tweedledee  to  Tweedledum. 


ROY  MASON 


VIII. 
Said  Mr.  Woodrow  Wilson  to  Mrs.  Wilson  Woodrow: 
"If  women  manned  the  boat  of  state,  I  s'pose  you  think 

you  could  row!" 
Said  Mrs.  Wilson  Woodrow  to  Mr.  Woodrow  W. : 
"I'd  rather  write  than  be  President,  so  pray  don't  let 
that  trouble  you!" 

BURGES  JOHNSON 
IX. 
Said  Olive  Oliver  to  Valli  Valli : 
"Aren't  you  glad  your  name's  not  Sally?" 
"And  aren't  you  glad  your  name's  not  Taliaferro?" 
Said  Valli  Valli  to  Olive  Oliver. 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 


22  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

X. 

Said  McAneny  to  McAdoo: 
"I  think  these  rhymes  are  all  too  few." 
"It  seems  to  me  they're  far  too  many," 
Said  McAdoo  to  McAneny. 

G.  B.  M. 
XI. 
Said  Monty  Flagg  to  Julie  Street: 
"Our  E.  P.  Roe  pome's  got  'em  beat." 
"Say,  you're  some  wit  and  I'm  some  wag," 
Quoth  Julie  Street  to  Monty  Flagg. 

DON. 
XII. 
Said  A.  E.  M.  to  F.  P.  A. : 
"Are  these  things  going  to  run  alway?" 
"No,  this  may  be  the  last  of  them," 
Said  F.  P.  A.  to 

A.  E.  M. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


23 


£ehnsucht 

Spun  gold,  weft  of  the  fairies'  loom — 

Her  hair. 
Lilies  tinged  with  the  roses'  bloom — 

Her  cheeks. 
Flush  of  dawn  in  the  East  is  not 

So  fair; 
Lisp  of  waters  in  elfin  grot — 

She  speaks. 

Love  from  her  eyes  for  me — for  me! 

Doth  shine. 
Riches  of  Croesus  are  hers,  yea,  three 

Times  o'er. 
Do  you  ask  why  I  do  not  make 

Her  mine? 
Say,  what  kind  of  a  boob  d'ye  take 

Me  for? 

I'm  gonna. 


SQUDGE 


24  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


zAnacreon  to  the  Sophist 

I  should  grieve  to  desperation 
For  the  higher  education; 
Say,  you  give  me  melancholia 
When  you  pull  that  kind  of  con. 
Tell  your  philosophic  notions 
To  the  widely-known  Boeotians — 
Run  along  and  sell  your  scholia — 
Go  and  hire  the  Parthenon! 

If  you'd  beg  me  to  the  blending 
Of  a  line  of  drinks  unending, 
If  you'd  give  me  my  diploma 
As  a  Bachelor  of  Song — 
Put  me  James  to  all  the  flighty 
Ways  of  golden  Aphrodite — 
It  would  alter  the  aroma 
Of  the  dope  you  pass  along. 

Nix  on  droll  Pythagorean! 
Boy!   Another  round  of  Chian! 
Dionysus  and  the  ladies 

Will  be  school  enough  for  now. 
Let's  be  wholly  to  the  merry 
Till  it's  time  to  take  the  ferry — 
Then  go  rolling  home  to  Hades, 
Roses  round  each  lowly  brow! 

B.  H. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  25 


The  ^Mother's  Trayer 

Lord,  if  some  little  children  of  our  day 

Must  spend  their  lives  beside  our  factory  wheels, 

Watching  the  endless  hours  to  drag  away, 

Must  learn  how  heartache  feels,  how  hunger  feels, 

If  they  must  toss  and  mutter  in  their  sleep 
Too  tired  to  rest,  when  fevered  rest  might  be, 

I  care  not,  Lord,  I  only  ask  to  keep 
Mine  safe  with  me! 

Lord,  if  the  street's  unwholesome  noise  and  mirth 
When  the  day's  poor-paid  drudgery  is  done 

Must  draw  the  wearied  little  maids  of  earth 
Into  a  hell  that  waits  them,  one  by  one; 

If,  scarred  and  starved,  like  fall'n  leaves  helpless  blown 
These  must  the  shame  of  living  still  endure, 

I  shall  not  murmur,  Lord,  but  keep  mine  own 
Guarded  and  pure! 

And  Lord,  if  there  be  many  who  complain 

In  bitter  poverty  and  toil  and  tears, 
Who  know  their  loved  ones  hungry  and  in  pain, 

And  faint  beneath  the  burden  of  the  years, 
Keep  Thou  mine  eyes  from  sight  of  such  as  these, 

Keep  Thou  my  mind  from  knowing  this  must  be, 
And,  gracious  Lord,  still  grant  Thou  wealth  and  ease 
To  mine  and  me! 

KATHLEEN  NORRIS 


26  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


The  "Blue  Jferis  Chickens 

Commodore  Thomas  Macdonough,  victor  in  the  Battle  of  Lake 
Champlain,  September,  1814,  hailed  from  Delaware,  whose  best  fighting 
men  were  known  from  Revolutionary  Days  as  "The  Blue  Hen's 
Chickens." 

Sou'-sou'east  of  the  woods  of  Penn 
Lies  the  nest  of  the  Old  Blue  Hen — 
The  garden  spot  beyond  compare 
Known  as  the  State  of  Delaware. 
Dutchman,  Yankee,  Finn  and  Swede, 
Filled  the  land  with  a  stalwart  breed, 
Cleared  the  forest,  sowed  the  maize 
Back  in  the  old  colonial  days, 
Then,  in  "the  times  that  tried  men's  souls", 
Put  their  names  on  the  muster-rolls 
And  marched  away,  with  courage  stout, 
To  drive  King  George's  Redcoats  out. 

North  with  the  Delaware  regiment 

Captain  Jonathan  Caldwell  went, 

Taking  along,  to  amuse  his  men, 

Sundry  chicks  of  the  Old  Blue  Hen. 

Yes,  they  had  their  minor  crimes; 

Men  "fought  cocks"  in  those  wicked  times, 

And  the  best-plucked  birds  from  the  Gulf  to  Maine 

Were  the  fighting-cocks  of  the  Old  Blue  strain; 

And  like  those  birds,  the  books  declare, 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  27 

Were  the  men  who  marched  from  the  Delaware; 

For  fight  they  could,  and  fight  like  the  dickens, 

So  the  Army  called  them,  "The  Blue  Hen's  Chickens". 


Once  again  was  the  land  at  grips 

With  mad  King  George's  troops  and  ships ; 

Macdonough  sailed  on  Lake  Champlain — 

A  fighting-cock  of  the  Old  Blue  strain. 

His  fleet,  new-built  of  lakeside  pine 

And  oak,  he  ranged  in  battle-line 

Where  Plattsburg's  headland  rears  its  crag; 

The  Saratoga  bore  his  flag. 

The  foe  came  down;  the  fight  was  hot; 

Port  and  starboard  crashed  the  shot; 

Heavy  broadside,  stroke  on  stroke, 

Battered  the  Flagship's  walls  of  oak — 

When, — a  bolt  from  a  British  sloop 
Raked  the  bars  of  the  chicken-coop ! 
Forth  upon  the  blood-stained  deck 
Strutted  a  Bird  with  arching  neck. 
Up  he  flew  to  the  splintering  spars 
Under  the  Flag  of  Fifteen  Stars 
And  crowed  and  crowed  and  crowed  again, 
For  he  was  a  Cock  of  the  Old  Blue  Hen! 
And  the  grimy  sailors  down  below 
Laughed  and  cheered  to  hear  his  crow, 
And  kept  the  rapid  guns  aflame 
Till  down  the  British  ensign  came. 

Bravely  flung  to  the  autumn  breeze 
Floats  the  Flag  on  the  lakes  and  seas, 


28  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

From  bending  masts  and  dipping  spars 

And  two-score-eight  are  its  Clustered  Stars. 

Two-score-eight,  in  their  silver  sheen, 

Cluster  the  Stars  that  were  once  Thirteen; 

And  there's  Peace  in  the  East,  Peace  in  the  West, 

From  the  Golden  Gate  to  the  Blue  Hen's  Nest. 

There  is  Peace.  And  the  Peace  that  ye  hold  so  dear 

Was  won  by  men  who  laughed  at  Fear ; 

So  may  we  have  in  time  of  need 

More  Fighting  Cocks  of  the  Blue  Hen's  breed! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  29 


To  ^Maurya 

Oh  Maurya,  will  ye  take  the  little  gift  o'  song  I'm  utter- 
in'? 
I  know  it's  far  from  perfect,  for  my  poor  heart's  all  a- 

flutterin', 
And  when  it's  ye  I'm  thinkin'  of,  my  singin'  seems  but 
stutterin' ; 
But  oh!  there's  all  the  feelin'  of  a  flamin  soul  behind 
it! 

Oh  Maurya,  hear  me,  dearest,  don't  ye  leave  me  here 

a-sorrowin' ; 
It  isn't  much  I  want — a  bit  o'  love  that  I'd  be  borrowin', 
Or,  darlin',  else  it's  scarce  I'd  know  which  world  I'd 
spend  the  morrow  in, 
For  oh!  my  soul's  gone  out  to  ye — and  where  is  it 
I'll  find  it? 

Oh,  Maurya,  Maurya,  don't  ye  see  my  heart's  a  pitter- 

patterin'? 
And  if  ye'd  say  but  one  sweet  word,  it's  little  else'd  be 

matterin'. 
What's  that  ye  said?  .   .   .  Oh,  Maurya,  don't  just  call 
this  foolish  chatterin', 
For  oh!  ye  know  ye'd  weep  o'er  it  if  J.  M.  Synge 
had  signed  it. 

ISOSCELES 


30  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


"Ballade  of  the  Table  ©' '  ShCote 

Oyster,  fit  for  a  monarch's  throat; 

Soup,  the  cream  of  the  world's  supply; 
Salmon,  fresh  from  the  fisher's  boat; 

Roasts  and  salads  and  entrees  vie. 

All  the  finest  that  gold  can  buy; 
Tempting  viands  with  parsley  girt — 

But,  by  all  of  the  gods  on  high, 
Never  a  palatable  dessert  1 

Mark  the  sweets  of  the  table  d'hote — 

This  is  the  line-up  that  greets  the  eye : 
Rhubarb  stewed,  or  an  island  float; 

Tapioca  and  custard  pie; 

Fancy  cakes  that  would  kill  a  guy; 
Prunes  that  taste  like  a  flannel  shirt; 

Apples,  overly  baked  and  dry — 
Never  a  palatable  dessert! 

Waiters,  knowing  their  craft  by  rote, 

Hover  ever  discreetly  nigh — 
Help  you  into  your  overcoat, 

Shoo  away  an  audacious  fly. 

Everything  done  to  satisfy; 
Everyone  quick,  polite,  alert; 

Here  is  the  only  place  they're  shy: 
Never  a  palatable  dessert! 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


31 


l/ENVOI 


Given  to  none  to  question  why ; 

Powerless  all  to  controvert — 
This  is  the  old,  unending  cry: 

Never  a  palatable  dessert! 


G.  S.  K, 


The  Qurse  of  ffiiint  "Praise 

I  have  lyric  aspiration; 

Though  my  verses  may  not  show  it, 
I  have  longed  to  hear  the  nation 

Cry  in  chorus:  "There's  a  poet!" 
With  a  burst  of  metered  gladness 

I  would  wing  my  way  to  glory; 
Fevered  phrases;  fitful  sadness 

Would  I  weave  into  my  story. 

Not  for  me  the  jingling  verses ; 

I  would  chant  a  nobler  meter; 
Tempt  me  not  with  crass  sesterces; 

Higher  are  mine  aims,  and  sweeter; 
But  whene'er  with  wild  elation 

Tremblingly  I  smite  the  lyre, 
Comes  the  swift  and  kind  damnation : 

"He's  a  clever  versifier." 

IRWIN 


32  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


*An  Cpic  of  Cjotham 

To  a  tea-time  tango  session,  where  they  dance  without 
repression, 
Came  a  modish,  suave  and  thuggish,  highly-polished 
Social  Gangster. 
He  was  both  a  finished  trotter  and  a  vile  and  vicious 
plotter — 
Quite  a  superficial,  sublimated  sort  of  biff-and-bang- 
ster. 
In  the  gilt  and  old-rose  ballroom,  in  Mephisto's  orgied 
thrall-room, 
Sat  a  Maid  of  boundless  beauty.  "Ah,  an  heiress  and 
a  Venus!" 
Said  the  Gangster,  "I'll  ensnare  her,  for  I've  rarely  seen 
a  fairer 
Dame  equipped  with  gold  and  di'monds.    There's  a 
golden  bond  between  us." 
So  they  met.  'Twas  quite  informal,  which  was  not  at  all 
abnormal, 
For  the  minions  of  the  tango  care  but  little  for  con- 
vention. 
At  these  apres-midi  dances  are  conceived  reverse  ro- 
mances 
And  some  other  social  problems  all  too  numerous 
to  mention. 
When  the  uplift  in  its  glory — but,  to  get  back  to  the 
story 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  33 

Of  this  prancing  Social  Gangster,  seeking  doting 
Maiden's  money. 
For  a  month  he  met  her  daily,  and  he  afternooned  her 
gaily 
In  the  cabaretted  regions  of  the  banjo,  wine  and 
honey. 
Then  he  thought  the  time  propitious  to  pursue  his  end 
malicious. 
As  the  plotter  and  the  plotted  rode  one  day  within  a 
taxi, 
He  resolved  to  tell  his  ardor  and  to  fill  his  shrinking 
larder 
With  the  Maiden's  jeweled  treasures.    So  he  curled 
his  moustache  waxy 
And  he  spake:  "I've  been  delighted,  ever  since  the  day 
I  sighted 
Your  sweet  face,  to  take  you  dancing  through  the 
lobster  country's  glamour, 
But  my  treasury  is  leaking,  and  my  creditors  are  squeak- 
ing, 
And  the  cohort  of  collectors  has  unnerved  me  with 
its  clamor. 
All  I  have  is  but  one  fifty  dollar  greenback.  Now,  that 
nifty 
Golden  bracelet  might  avail  me,  or  that  wrist-watch 
or  that  diamond." 
But  the  Maiden  eyed  him  queerly.  "If  you  think,"  she 
said,  "I'm  merely 
A  plain  heiress,  you're  mistaken.  No,  I  can't  be  Sim- 
ple-Simoned." 
Then  she  drew  from  out  her  pocket  a  revolver.    She 
did  cock  it. 


34  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

She  did  point  it  at  that  gangster,  him  who  was  both 
slick  and  shifty. 
"I  am  sorry,"  she  asserted,  "that  I  have  not  been  con- 
verted. 
But  before  I  leave  this  taxi,  will  you  please  slip  me 
the  fifty?" 
Which  he  did.   So  she  bereft  him  and  without  ado  she 
left  him, 
And  the  drama  ceases  here,  and  what  is  more,  it  has 
no  sequel. 
What?    The  moral?    It  is  simple.     In  the  gun-girPs 
pinkish  dimple, 
In  the  Female  of  the  Species,  Social  Gangsters  find 
their  equal. 

LESTER 


To  One  "Departed 

The  flowers  are  dying  since  you  left; 

Joyous  no  more,  each  lovely  head, 
Of  your  dear  graciousness  bereft, 

Droops  as  if  mourning  for  the  dead. 
Ah,  might  the  kiss  of  summer  rain 

Raise  these  that  wilt  upon  the  stem? 
It  might,  but  since  you  caught  the  train 

IVe  plumb  forgot  to  water  them. 

LEE  KINGSTON 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  35 


J^oon  cRJyer  ^Anthology 

CLEOPATRA 

Here  I  lie  under  the  sands 

Of  Egypt. 

When  people  called  me  beautiful, 

Because  I  happened  to  be  a  Queen, 

I  knew  I  was  not. 

But  I  made  the  most  of  my  opportunities. 

Ask  J.  Caesar, 

Ask  M.  Antony. 

Poets,  who  had  never  seen  me, 

Did  the  rest,  when, 

After  a  snake  had  bitten  my  left,  great  toe, 

I  died  of  fright. 

VILLON 

It's  all  very  well  to  call  a  man  a  thief, 

But  how  would  you  have  liked  to  go  hungry 

In  mid-winter, 

Out  in  the  snow  of  the  streets 

Before  Paris  was  "la  Ville  Lumiere"; 

And  with  wolves  about? 

Poetry  didn't  get  me  far,  either. 

I  was  good  at  it; 

But  it  was  too  complicated  in  my  day, 


36  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Too  hard  to  write, 

It  cut  into  a  man's  leisure  time. 

So,  what  with  women,  and  dice, 

And  other  essentials, 

I  needed  the  money. 

And  so  they  strung  me  up. 

You  writers  of  free  verse, — before  you  condemn  me, 

Remember ! 

If  you  had  to  write  Ballades  for  a  living, 

As  I  did, 

You  might  pick  a  pocket  yourselves  sometimes. 

DANTE 

Folks  thought  I  had  been  in  Hell, 

Because  I  wrote  a  poem  about  it, 

And  looked  grim  and  sad. 

But  it  was  really  my  wife, 

Jealous  of  Beatrice  and  who  couldn't  cook. 

So,  between  indigestion,  and  the  sound  of  her  tongue, 

I  grew  sour  on  life. 

Ye,  who  stand  by  my  tomb  in  Ravenna, 

Look,  and  pass  on. 

Others  may  be  waiting. 

QUEEN  VICTORIA 

People  thought  me  a  model  wife  and  mother, 

And  great  poets  praised  me; 

All  except  Swinburne. 

But  all  the  same, 

I  did  read  "Laus  Veneris"  once, 

On  the  sly. 

I  liked  it,  too. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  37 

SWINBURNE 
I  died  in  time. 
I  could  not  live  in  a  world 
Where  this  sort  of  thing 
Is  called  verse. 

I  call  it (Deleted  by  the  Censor.) 

L.  W.  D. 


The  'Poltroon 

His  country  cowered  under  the  mailed  fist 

Of  the  great  soldier  nation  of  his  day; 

But  did  he  volunteer?   Not  he;  instead 

He  talked  in  ill-timed,  ill-judged  platitudes, 

Urging  a  most  unpatriotic  peace. 

People  that  had  been  once  slapped  in  the  face 

Ought  to  stand  still,  he  thought,  till  slapped  again. 

And  when  they  were  insulted  they  should  watch 

For  chances  to  return  it  with  a  favor! 

I  will  say  for  him,  milksop  as  he  was, 

He  proved  consistent,  for  he  let  himself 

Be  knocked  about  the  streets  and  spit  upon, 

And  never  had  the  manhood  to  hit  back. 

Of  course  he  had  no  sense  at  all  of  honor, 

Either  his  country's  honor  or  his  own; 

Contemptible  poltroon!    His  name  was  Jesus. 

SARAH  N.  CLEGHORN 


38  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


To  ^Aristotle  in  ^Maytime 

'Mid  dusty  bookshelves,  reaching  high, 
We  sit  together,  you  and  I, 
Reflecting  on  the  How  and  Why, 

Aristotle. 

Outside,  the  sky  is  very  blue ; 
I  hear  the  robins  calling,  too; 
And  warm  spring  winds  come  wandering  through 

The  open  window. 

They  flutter  in  and  flit  away 

And  tempt  my  silly  thoughts  to  stray; 

I  cannot  keep  my  mind  today 

From  foolish  fancies. 

I  wonder  whether,  long  ago, 
As  you  went  pacing  to  and  fro, 
With  knitted  brow  and  head  bent  low 

In  deep  reflection, 

Some  playful,  prankish  little  breeze, 
Sweet  with  the  breath  of  blossoming  trees, 
Broke  in  upon  your  reveries 

And  sent  them  flying. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  39 

I  wonder  if  you  tried  in  vain 

To  concentrate  your  learned  brain, 

And  could  not  bring  it  back  again 

To  weighty  musings, 

Feeling  within  your  pulses  beat 

A  sudden  longing,  strange  and  sweet — 

The  call  that  bids  her  children  greet 

Earth's  primal  gladness. 

I  wonder  if  you  turned  away, 
As  I,  no  doubt,  shall  turn  to-day, 
From  thoughts  of  Being,  to  obey 

Spring's  sweet- voiced  summons; 

And  as  you  sauntered  here  and  there, 
Knew  only  that  the  world  was  fair 
And  life  a  joy,  and  did  not  care 

To  question  further. 

No  doubt  my  fancies  do  you  wrong; 
Could  saucy  breeze  or  bird's  glad  song 
Have  swayed  that  mind  serene  and  strong 

To  idle  dreamings? 

And  yet,  since  I  shall  never  know, 
I  like  to  think  that  it  was  so — 
That  you  had  springtimes  long  ago, 

Aristotle. 


MARGARET  HAMILTON  WAGENHALS 


40  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


The  Clusive  tMotif 

I  sing  no  song  of  urban  life, 

Nor  yet  of  greening  meadows,  nor 
Of  rivers,  mountains,  nor  the  strife 
Of  war. 

Nor  of  the  crimson-tinted  dawn, 

That  steals  across  the  distant  hill ; 
Nor  summer's  blue-birds  on  the  lawn 
That  thrill. 

I  sing  not  of  the  glancing  moon 

Across  the  leaping  billows'  roar; 
Or  on  the  placid  slow  lagoon 
In  shore. 

Nor  yet  of  politics,  nor  of  art, 

Nor  science,  nor  Love's  old  sweet  tune, 
That  stirs  the  restless,  new-born  heart 
Of  June. 

I  sing  not  of  the  light  that  lies 

On  some  fair  maiden's  face,  or  strays 
Into  the  glory  of  her  eyes, 
And  plays. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  41 

Nor  of  the  gentle-blooming  gay 
Of  flowerets  waking  on  the  lea ; 


What  do  I  sing  of,  then,  you  say? 
Search  mel 


DUNTON 


cPsyc/wana/yzed;  or  The  Crotic  ^hCotive 
in  Qontribbing 

Love  is  a  day  of  golden  beams, 

(The  infantile  worship  of  the  sun)  ; 
Love,  the  aroma  of  fragrant  dreams, 

(An  analyst,  here,  may  read  and  run)  ; 
Love  is  the  tranquil  goal  of  fears, 

(A  transference  from  a  near  relation)  ; 
Love  is  the  haven  of  weary  tears, 

(The  Electra,  or  Oedipus,  constellation). 
Here,  in  the  soft  light  of  your  charms, 

(In  Psychoanalysis,  light  is  a  symbol), 
Here,  in  the  refuge  of  your  arms, 

(The  libido  seems  to  be  getting  nimble), 
Love  is  enchantment,  Love  is  true, 
Love  is  all,  and  Love  is  You. 

And  it's  just  as  well  that  Love's  song  is  sung 
Before  a  perusal  of  Freud  or  JungI 

R.  N.  S. 


42 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


"zAmo,  zAmasy  zAmat" 

Amo,  amas,  amat 

That  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  my  learning, 

The  fruit  of  three  years'  study  of  Latin. 

The    drone   of   declensions  became  the  drone  of  bees 

above  alfalfa, 
And  I  was  away  with  my  gun  to  the  fields  where  lived 

the  quail  and  the  rabbits, 
Or  stalking  some  woodland  place  awaiting  my  shot  at 

a  fox  squirrel 
Only  to  be  brought  back  by  the  acid  voice  of  Winnie : 
"Some  one  in  the  class  is  not  paying  attention!" 
Then  Winnie  would  shed  a  few  tears  and  threaten  to 

write  to  my  father. 
Latin  to  her  was  life,  and  life  mainly  Latin; 
We  in  the  class  knew  her  as  the  reincarnation  of  some 

Roman 
Patiently  tarrying  with  us  until  she  could  rejoin  the 

immortals, 
Perhaps  to  be  Caesar's  wife — modern  man  she  hated ; 
Never  was   virgin    more   prim   both  as  to  verbs  and 

virtues. 
I  remember  one  day  in  Cicero  she  blushed  scarlet  and 

hastened  us  over  a  page. 
Knowing  there  was  something  grave  behind  this  con- 
cession, 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  43 

We  dug  out  the  arduous  passage  and  found,  "O  you 
libertines!  you  men  of  licentiousness!" 

Ten  years  later  when  I  was  at  work  in  the  city, 
Sunning  myself  in  the  park  one  day,  a  woman  paused  at 

the  bench  and  asked  my  name — 
It  was  Winnie. 
Her  hair  was  no  longer  pulled  back  and  parted  in  the 

middle, 
And  she  wore  French  heels  on  her  shoes — it  was  as  if 

the  Madonna  had  turned  tailor's  mannikin. 
Well,  Winnie  had  married  a  butcher,  and  she  was  the 

mother  of  twins. 
That  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  my  learning, 

Amo,  atnas,  amat 

MURDOCK  PEMBERTON 


The  (groaning  'Board 

A  buttery,  sugary,  syrupy  waffle — ■ 
Gee,  but  I  love  it  somep'n  awful. 
Ginger-cakes  dripping  with  chocolate  goo, 
Oo!  How  I  love  'em!  Oo!  Oo!  OO! 

PINK 


44  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


£ong  of  a  l^egular  ZNjPpp  York  Quy 

I  am  a  regular  New  York  guy, 
Quite  deboniar  and  rather  sly; 
Every  Saturday  night  I  go 
Down  to  a  Broadway  girlie  show; 
After  that  to  a  swell  cafe — 
Classy  band  and  a  cabaret, 
Rather  devilish,  just  for  gents, 
Oyster  cocktail — forty  cents. 

I  am  a  regular  New  York  guy — 
Just  like  the  rest  of  my  species,  I 
Peruse  the  tales  in  the  Satevepost; 
Never  yet  missed  it,  that's  my  boast; 
Open  my  window  an  inch  each  night, 
I  am  a  fresh  air  fiend  all  right; 
I  take  the  "Times"  and  I  read  it  all, 
And  I  cast  my  vote  for  Tammany  Hall. 

I  am  a  regular  New  York  guy — 

Afraid  of  the  hat-check  boy  am  I, 

Askeered  of  the  man  who  shines  my  shoe, 

In  fear  of  the  taxi  driver,  too; 

In  awe  of  the  cop  who  walks  my  beat, 

The  slave  of  the  waiter  who  serves  my  meat; 

Of  course  I  don't  show  it,  oh  not  a  bit, 

But  I  know  that  they're  well  aware  of  it. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  45 

Gee,  it's  a  merry  life  I  lead, 

Just  one  gay  song  and  dance  and  feed; 

A  blithesome  course  of  fun  and  joy, 

With  never  a  single  base  alloy; 

I  give  no  thought  to  things  that  were, 

And  I  do  it  on  my  twenty  per ; 

I  haven't  the  time  to  droop  and  sigh, 

For  I  am  a  regular  New  York  guy. 

MORTON 


One  Spake  to  Jfelen 

Your  beauty  is  a  lyric  thing: 

One  little  voice  too  small, 
Upon  the  noisy  way  of  life, 

To  sing  and  tell  it  all. 

Yet  some  shall  pause  and  some  shall  hear 
And  some  shall  mark  me  well; 

And  some  shall  say,  "Give  ear,  good  friends, 
To  what  he  hath  to  tell." 

.  .  .In  after  days,  if  memory  grope 

Through  hazy  years  and  long, 
Which  shall  the  world  remember  then, 

Your  beauty — or  my  song? 

S.  K. 


46  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


To  the  TJers  J^ibrists 

Ye  that  have  shattered  the  shackles  of  prosody, 
Ye  that  are  freed  from  the  fetters  of  rhyme, 
Sneering  at  metre  with  loud  "Persicos  odi," 
Deeming  the  Tyrian  trimmings  a  crime — 

Sing  if  ye  will  your  cacophonous  utterings, 
Mash  'em  like  Masters  or  pound  'em  like  Pound; 
We've  had  enough  of  your  stumblings  and  stutterings. 
Leave  us  the  thrill  of  melodious  sound — 

Measures  that  march  with  the  surge  of  a  benison, 
Metres  that  ripple  and  tinkle  like  bells, 
Lyrics  of  Calverley,  Dobson,  and  Tennyson ; 
Carols  of  Carryl  and  Caroline  Wells. 

QUINTUS 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  47 


(§estina  of  the  Cjfliv 

Speaking  of  autos,  I  have  tried  them  all ; 
The  trim  electric  crawling  up  the  hill, 
The  twelve  that's  smooth  at  sixty  miles  or  more, 
The  eights  and  sixes  of  the  middle  class, 
And  e'en  one-lungers  in  the  bygone  days, — 
But  that  Lizzie  is  the  car  I  like. 

Indeed,  she  is  the  car  that  all  must  like, — 
Lizzie,  the  cheerfulest,  the  best  of  all, 
Lizzie,  the  cause  of  many  happy  days, 
Who  cheerfully  climbs  up  the  steepest  hill. 
Though  there  are  folks  who  say  she's  lacking  class 
Each  day  I  like  the  little  flivver  more. 

As  days  go  by  she  rattles  more  and  more, 
And  though  the  rattles  seem  to  sound  alike, 
The  expert  ear  can  separate  and  class, 
And  to  their  proper  source  assign  them  all. 
You  ought  to  hear  her  pounding  up  the  hill ; 
A  four-year  Ford's  the  thing  for  happy  days. 

I  look  with  dread  upon  those  coming  days 
When  faithful  little  Lizzie  is  no  more, 
When  she  has  sputtered  up  her  last  steep  hill 
And  all  the  rattling  tinware  that  we  like 
Gone  to  the  junk-shop — horrid  place  where  all 
Must  go,  whatever  make  or  class. 


48  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Our  Lizzie,  the  most  patient  of  her  class, 
Though  we  forget  the  oil  for  days  and  days, 
And  never  give  her  any  grease  at  all, 
And  never  clean  her  spark-plugs  any  more, 
Though  much  abused,  these  ways  and  others  like, 
She's  still  a  wonder  on  the  steepest  hill. 

High  gear  for  her,  though  long  and  steep  the  hill ; 
What's  meat  for  cars  of  little  Lizzie's  class 
Is  shunned  by  Spackards,  Phiats  and  the  like. 
They're  well  enough  for  perfect  roads  and  days, 
But  when  mud's  deep  and  country  roads  are  more 
Like  lakes  than  roads,  the  flivver  beats  them  all. 

O'er  bog  and  hill,  in  rain  or  pleasant  days, 
She's  sure  some  class,  and  ever  more  and  more, 
She's  what  we  like,  our  Flivver  best  of  all. 

H.  G.  F. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  49 


To  a  'Bookworm 

You  visit  me  often  and  every  time 
You  raid  and  plunder  my  library. 

Volumes  of  genius  in  prose  and  rhyme — 
How  many  books  have  you  pilfered?    Gee, 
What  a  collection  yours  must  be! 

Books  are  the  debts  that  never  come  due. 
Where  are  the  volumes  I  used  to  see? 

WHY  DON'T  YOU  BORROW  MY  BOOKCASE,  TOO? 

A  burglar  coming  to  call  must  climb 

The  fire-escape  or  the  balcony. 
He  risks  a  punishment  for  the  crime; 

You  enter  a  house  with  more  ease  than  he 

(At  times  I  even  lend  you  my  key) 
And  "borrow"  a  Sheridan,  Shaw,  or  Sue, 

An  F.  P.  A.  or  a  B.  L.  T. 
WHY  DON'T  YOU  BORROW  MY  BOOKCASE,  TOO? 

Poems  by  Lindsay  and  Oppenheim, 

Untermyer  and  Edgar  Lee 
Masters,  and  others  now  in  their  prime — 

Verse  that's  shackled  and  verse  that's  free — 

Travelled  in  classical  company 
Straight  to  the  flat  which  belongs  to  you, 

Out  of  the  home  which  belongs  to  me. 
WHY  DON'T  YOU  BORROW  MY  BOOKCASE,  TOO? 


50  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

At  times  you  robbed  me  of  two  and  three 
Priceless  volumes,  some  old — some  new, 
The  Brittanica  went — from  A  to  Z — 
WHY  DON'T  YOU  BORROW  MY  BOOKCASE,  TOO? 

FRECKLES 
E.  J.  M. 


%agged  T>ays 

Not  that  I  crave  a  full  accomplished  bliss, 

A  finished  marble  universe;  I  know 

In  such  a  timeless  wonder  I  should  miss 

The  pulse  of  power,  and  the  achieving  glow. 

The  anguish  of  the  depths,  the  happy  heights, 

The  keen  kaleidoscopic  undertaking, 

Bring  various  joy;  the  ragged  days  and  nights, 

The  makeshift  beauties  I  can  help  re-making. 

The  flowing  hopes  and  hungers,  and  the  long 

Resurgent  tides  of  tears  and  merriment, 

These  are  my  paean,  my  sufficient  song, 

And  were  my  very  choral  of  content, 

Could  I  but  see  before  the  judgment  crash, 
Clean,  still  perfection  in  one  frozen  flash. 

IRWIN 


THE  CONNING  TOWER   BOOK  51 


'Pre-eminence 


I  once  knew  a  man 

Who'd  met  Duse, 

(Or  so  he  said) 

And  talked  with  her; 

As  she  came  down  a  windy  street 

He  turned  a  corner 

Headlong  into  her. 

"I  am  so  sorry," 

Duse  said, 

"I  was  looking  at  the  stars." 

My  envy  of  that  man 

Withstood  the  years 

Until  one  day  I  met  a  Dane 

Who'd  talked  with  Henrik  Ibsen : 

This  man,  with  head  bowed  to  the  wind, 

Was  walking  up  a  Stockholm  way 

When  'round  the  corner  came  the  seer, 

And  he  plumped  into  him. 

And  that  great  mind 

Whose  thinking  moved  the  world 

Surveyed  my  friend 

Through  his  big  eyes 

And  slowly  spoke: 

"Since  when  have  codfish  come  to  land?" 


52  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

With  all  the  awe 

One  has  for  those  who've  known  the  great, 

These  two  I've  envied, 

Until  the  other  day 

When  blundering  round  behind  the  scenes, 

I  stepped  upon  Pavlowa's  toe. 

MURDOCK  PEMBERTON 


Sense 


What  does  he  want  of  beauty,  always  singing 
Beauty  is  something  born  upon  the  sea, 
Or  apple-blossoms  in  the  dusk,  or  rainfall 
Slanting  against  a  black-green  tree? 

What  will  he  get  of  beauty,  and  not  take  it 
One  of  these  nights  when  I  am  dead  of  talk? 
I've  seen  fellows  that  he  wouldn't  look  at 
Tremble  if  they  passed  me  on  a  walk. 


ADUL  TIMA 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  53 


To  Thaliarchus 
Horace:   Book  I.,  Ode  9;  "Vides  ut  alta  stet  nive  candidum" 

See  how  the  snow  lies  white  on  high  Soracte ; 
Scarcely  the  groaning  trees  support  their  burden, 
And  in  its  grasp  the  sharp  frost  holds  the  waters. 
Keep  out  the  cold,  pile  logs  upon  the  fireplace; 
Bring  out  the  Sabine,  four  years  old,  and  pour  it 
Into  the  loving  cup,  Master  of  the  Revels! 
Leave  to  the  gods  the  rest;  the  stormy  ocean 
Quieted  now,  the  warring  winds  are  silent; 
Stir  not  the  cypress,  nor  the  ancient  ash-trees. 
Cease  then  from  asking  what  may  come  to-morrow; 
Whatever  joys  to-day  may  bring,  enjoy  them. 
Spurn  not  the  games,  delight  of  boys,  nor  dances, 
Till  youth  is  over,  and  the  white  hairs  gather. 
Now  in  the  lanes,  and  in  the  public  gardens 
At  evenfall  soft  murmurs  are  repeated, 
And  the  young  fellow,  at  the  hour  appointed, 
Darts  on  the  damsel  lurking  in  the  corner, 
From  her  fair  arm  the  bracelet  bright  detaches, 
Or  draws  the  ring  from  not  unwilling  fingers. 

N. 


54  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


The  Qosmic  Urge 

I  have  never  cared  for  fashion 

Or  indulged  abnormal  passion 

For  the  hues  of  socks,  the  cuts  of  coats  and  such ; 

I  have  paid  but  scant  adherence 

To  the  ethics  of  appearance 

For  the  things  I  know  of  dressing  aren't  much. 

But  there's  now  a  new  horizon 

Looms  before  me;  IVe  my  eyes  on 

Broader,  better,  higher,  deeper,  grander  ways; 

I  am  reading  ads.  for  clothing 

(Which  till  lately  I  was  loathing) 

And  I'm  shaving  now  at  nights  as  well  as  days. 

I  am  growing  quite  a  dandy, 

Know  the  nuances  in  candy, 

And  the  places  where  one's  flowers  should  be  bought; 

And  it  dawns  on  me  that  living 

Is  made  happier  by  giving 

More  attention  to  the  details  than  I  ought. 

You  may  think  some  Maud  or  Mabel 

Is  the  cause  that  makes  me  able 

To  devote  a  brief  two  hours  to  sleep  each  night; 

You  may  smile  and  say  it's  Cupid 

Makes  this  versifier  stupid — 

Let  me  tell  you,  Gentle  Reader,  you  are  right. 

P.  W. 


THE   CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  55 


The  "Daffodils 

To-day  a  year  ago — 

I  found  the  record  of  it  this  morning 

On  a  dirty  scrap  of  paper  fallen  from  a  book — 

There  was  a  call  for  an  ambulance 

At  Mont  Richard. 

I  was  the  "next  out",  so  they  sent  me, 

Me  and  my  old  flivver,  162. 

Mont  Richard  is  a  god-forsaken  chateau 

Behind  a  thicket  of  horrible  pine  trees, 

A  poste  de  secours 

In  full  view  of  the  German  trenches : 

"Not  a  hygienic  resort",  the  soldiers  say. 

The  sky  was  gray,  the  whole  world  was  gray, 

Except  the  mud,  which  was  yellow  ooze. 

A  few  77s  were  dropping  informally  in  for  tea, 

When  I  passed  the  battered  grille  and  began  to  climb 

the  gouged  road 
Which  winds  through  that  sodden,  desolate  garden. 
A  territorial  with  sore,  red  eyes,  tunic,  breeches  and 

boots  clay-caked, 
Came  out  and  advised  me  to  wait  behind  some  sort  of 

shelter 
Till  ces  ordures  began  to  let  up. 
So  I  left  the  ambulance  and  went  toward  the  ruin  of  a 

pavilion — 
Just  the  angle  of  an  ivied  wall 


56  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Still  standing  deep  in  green. 
And  then — 

0  I  forgot  the  war, 
And  dying  men, 
And  the  snarling  77s, 

And  the  godless  misery  of  Lorraine! 

There  in  the  coarse  winter-grass, 

There  right  at  my  feet, 

Was  Sun — Spring — Home — 

A  clump  of  the  yellowest  blossomed  daffodils! 

1  think  I  saw  them  through  tears, 
Those  flowers  I  love  best, 

Down  on  my  knees  touching  their  sunny  heads 
With  home-sick  hands. 

"Dis,  V Americain — si  tu  aimes  ca — " 
My  soldier  was  at  my  elbow — 
"Attends — fvais  te  faire  une  'tite  chose." 
Then  somewhere  he  discovered  a  broken  pot, 
And  with  his  bayonet  dug  up  the  daffodils, 
Earthed  them  and  put  them  in  my  arms. 
"Tiens  ca!  Moi  aussi  faime  les  fleurs,  mon  pote! 
Sale  guerre,  hein?" 

My  blesse  died  before  I  got  him  to  the  hospital 

Seven  miles  off, 

Poor  chap! 

But  the  blossomed  daffodils  beside  me — 

O  they  were  life — 

Life  and  Sun  and  Spring  and  Home. 

EMERY  POTTLE 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  57 


<iA  (jrub  Street  "Recessional 

O  noble,  gracious  English  tongue 
Whose  fibres  we  so  sadly  twist, 
For  caitiff  measures  he  has  sung 
Have  pardon  on  the  journalist. 

For  mumbled  measures,  leaden  puns, 
For  slipshod  rhyme,  ill-chosen  word, 
Have  pity  on  us  graceless  ones — 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people,  Lord! 

The  metaphors  and  tropes  depart, 
Our  little  clippings  fade  and  bleach: 
There  is  no  virtue  and  no  art 
Save  in  straightforward  Saxon  speech. 

Yet  not  in  ignorance  or  spite, 
Nor  with  thy  splendid  past  forgot, 
We  sinned :  indeed  we  had  to  write 
To  keep  a  fire  beneath  the  pot. 

Then  grant  that  in  the  coming  time 
With  inky  hand  and  polished  sleeve 
In  lucid  prose  or  honest  rhyme 
Some  worthy  task  we  may  achieve     . 


58  THE   CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 

Some  pinnacled  and  marbled  phrase, 
Some  Lyric,  breaking  like  the  sea, 
That  we  may  win  the  craftsman's  praise, 
And  land  in  some  Anthology! 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


Testament 

Oh,  let  it  be  a  night  of  lyric  rain 

And  singing  breezes,  when  my  bell  is  tolled. 

I  have  so  loved  the  rain  that  I  would  hold 
Last  in  my  ears  its  friendly,  dim  refrain. 
I  shall  lie  cool  and  quiet,  who  have  lain 

Fevered  and  watched  the  book  of  day  unfold. 

Death  will  not  see  me  flinch;  the  heart  is  bold 
That  pain  has  made  incapable  of  pain. 

Kinder  the  busy  worms  than  ever  love; 
It  will  be  peace  to  lie  there,  empty-eyed, 

My  bed  made  secret  by  the  leveling  showers, 
My  breast  replenishing  the  weeds  above. 

And  you  will  say  of  me,  "Then  has  she  died? 
Perhaps  I  should  have  sent  a  spray  of  flowers." 

DOROTHY  PARKER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  59 


/  ZSQroer  Did  Cjit  to  Qo  to  Omaha 

I've  allays  wanted  to  travel  ever  since 

Jennie  Larkin  an'  me  was  little  girls 

In  school  at  Sycamore  Corners. 

We  used  to  go  at  night  to  see  the  Flyer 

Flash  across  her  father's  farm. 

We'd  see  long  rows  of  lighted  cars 

Gleamin'  against  the  dusk 

An'  people  inside  havin'  such  a  lovely  time 

Readin'  an'  eatin'; 

All  dressed  up  with  nothin'  to  do 

But  travel  to  the  West;  an'  we  said 

When  we  grew  up,  we'd  go  West  on  the  Flyer. 

Well,  Jennie  got  grown  an'  had  a  beau. 

He  had  a  ranch  left  him  out  near  Omaha, 

An'  she  said  when  they  was  married, 

They'd  pay  my  way  out  there,  to  visit  them. 

How  I  would  have  loved  to  go  to  Omaha! 

A-ridin'  out  there  on  the  Flyer, 

Eatin'  on  the  diner 

All  the  way,  an'  lookin'  out  the  winders 

At  coyotes  an'  wild  Injuns, 

An'  great  flat  prairies  an'  whoopin'  cowboys. 

But  it  all  fell  through. 

Jennie's  mother  said  she'd  sooner  see  her  girl 

A-lyin'  in  her  coffin  than  married 

To  any  man  alive. 


60  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

She  said  she'd  cut  her  throat  if  Jennie  left  her, 

So  Jennie  is  an  old  woman  now 

In  the  Old  Ladies'  Home, 

An'  I  never  did  git  to  go  to  Omaha! 

ALICE  MARY  KIMBALL 


The  J^imit,  JEimited 

I  watched  her  in  the  sleeper  dressing  room. 

She  bathed  her  face  and  neck,  and  next  took  down 

A  wealth  of  bright,  brown  hair.    Then,  to  my  pain, 

She  tortured  it,  and  wound  it  on  those  firm 

Unyielding  bars  of  steel  called  Natural  Waves ; 

And  Miss  McComas  in  "Miss  Lulu  Bett" 

Concealed  her  beauty  no  less  thoroughly. 

But  I  forgave  her  when  I  caught  the  gleam 

Of  humor  in  her  eye  as  it  met  mine, 

And  heard  her  murmur  while  she  closed  her  bag, 

"It's  just  my  luck  to  have  this  train  wrecked  now." 

NOEMIE 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  61 


The  zJxtotorisfs  Cjuide 

The  sun  is  glad,  the  earth  is  gay, 

The  morning  airs  blow  fresh  and  sweet; 
This  is  indeed  a  holiday — 


NOTICE:     THIS  IS  A  ONE-WAY  STREET! 


Awakes  the  rose  as  from  a  dream 

And  far  away  chill  rains  have  fled; 
The  skies  are  blue;  the  waters  gleam — 


ROAD  closed!  construction  work  ahead! 


Good  old  machine,  it's  running  fine 
The  level  roads  beneath  us  flow; 
We're  doing  thirty-eight  or  nine — 


SCHOOL  CROSSING:  MOTOR  CARS  GO  SLOW ! 


Our  eyes  light  up,  our  thoughts  expand, 

Our  laggard  lungs  with  ozone  fill; 
What  vistas  open  on  each  hand! 


CAUTION:     SHARP  CURVE  AND  DANGEROUS  HILL! 


Well,  there's  the  little  inn  in  sight, 

And  luncheon-time  is  drawing  near; 
What  say  you,  shall  we  all  alight? — 


AUTOMOBILES  MUST  NOT  STOP  HERE! 


G.  S.  B. 


62  THE   CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


ZHome  T>efense 

Home-defence  in  our  Town! 

There  are  flags — 

A  lot  of  flags. 

Last  night  there  was  a  rally  at  the  fire-house 

And  we  sang  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner" 

And  adopted  the  five-unit  system 

Of  home  defence. 

There  weren't  so  many  phrases  I  didn't  like 

In  the  dear  old  oratorical  periods — 

But  there  were  some. 

"House  to  house  investigation", 

"Vigilance  Committee", 

" — Challenged  as  to  whether  he  was  loyal." 

You  know 

We  need  to  be  careful, 
We  need  to  be  very  careful 
On  this  "disloyalty"  business. 
We  need  to  be  very  careful 
Not  to  turn  into  Prussians! 

I  was  thinking, 

As  I  went  to  sleep,  of  some  florid,  puffy  old  German 
With  walrus  moustache  and  a  wholly  simple  heart 
And  kindly  nature. — 


THE   CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  63 

Such  as  I  saw  occupying  a  chair 

At  our  village  meeting, — 

I  was  thinking  I  saw  him  stand 

Shivering  in  his  night-shirt,  perfectly  bewildered, 

Sputtering  puzzlement  to  a  very  earnest  band 

Of  saviors  of  their  country 

Who  had  run  on  the  heels  of  rumor 

With  officious  zeal 

Crowded  into  his  house — and  were  making  holy  asses 

Of  themselves  about  him — 

Or,  worse!     ...     It  might  be  worse — it  has  been 

worse — 
In  times  of  war  and  excitement, 
We're  not  so  free  as  all  that 
From  the  mad,  debased  mob-spirit,  over  here. 
Men  are  combustible! 

Suppose  I  had  risen  up  in  our  town-meeting 
And  spoken  out  and  said,  "You  see  before  you 
A  conscientious  objector! 
What  is  your  disposition 
Of  such,  who  conscientiously  refuse 
To  fight,  on  moral  grounds?" 
I  say,  suppose  I  had  said  it. 
Hisses,  I  know. 
Catcalls,  I  know. 

Stalwart,  red-faced  self-righteousness 
Thundering  for  applause. 
These  obvious  reactions,  I  know.  Would  you  have  used 

them, 
Friends,  fellow-villagers? 

As  it  happens 

The  only  convictions  I  can  honestly  hold 


64  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Tell  me  America's  hands  are  clean,  her  cause 

Is  high,  this  hour     .     .     . 

And  I  am  for  her 

Against  the  Prussian. 

I  have  always  hated  the  Prussian  in  mankind, 

Bigotry,  tyranny, 

The  mailed  fist     .     .     . 

All  I  say  is 

Let  us  be  very  careful  to  keep  our  clumsy  hands  off 

Men's  souls,  this  hour. 

Let  us  be  very  careful  of  our  Vigilance  Committees, 

Let  us  be  very  careful  not  to  turn  into  Prussians 

In  our  righteous  house  to  house  investigation. 

Let  us  not  smirch  or  befoul  the  cause  of  our  country 

Or  our  flag  of  freedom! 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  65 


The  T>eath  of  Klondike  Jack 
BY  MOTHER  GOOSE  AND  ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 

Ten  years  ago,  in  the  land  of  snow  away  on  the  Yukon 

track, 
There  lived  a  man  of  the  red  blood  clan  that  the  boys 

called  Klondike  Jack. 
And  a  mile  away,  where  the  coyotes  howl,  on  the  far 

side  of  the  hill, 
There  lived  a  dame  with  a  tale  of  her  own,  who  was 

known  as  Lady  Jill. 

Now,  Jack  was  as  tough  as  a  man  could  be,  with  a  kick 

in  either  paw, 
A  single  whack  from  his  fist  could  crack  an  iron-plated 

jaw, 
But  sometimes  when  he  had  gone  away,  we'd  gossip,  as 

rough  men  will, 
Of  a  strange  affair  of  the  long  ago,  between  Jack  and 

Lady  Jill. 

One  night,  when  the  snow  was  smashing  down,  in  One 

Eye  Pete's  cafe, 
Old  Jack  was  holding  a  drinking  bout,  and  the  pace 

was  swift  and  gay. 
The  fellows  sang  and  swore  and  drank  as  only  miners 

can — 


66  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

God!  That  was  the  time  in  the  frozen  slime  when  a 
man  could  be  a  man! 

Well,  just  as  the  revels  reached  their  height,  the  door 
burst  open  wide. 

We  looked — and  there  was  Lady  Jill  with  an  iron 
pail,  outside. 

And  some  of  us  sneered  and  some  of  us  jeered  when 
she  started  her  harangue, 

But  as  she  spoke  a  silence  broke  all  over  our  rough- 
necked  gang. 

"It's  cold  to-night,  and  the  snow's  down  thick,"  she  said, 

in  ghastly  tones ; 
"You  can  hear  the  howl  of  the  wolves  that  prowl,  and 

the  rattle  of  dead  men's  bones. 
But  I  need  some  water  down  at  the  shack  on  the  other 

side  of  the  trail; 
Who'll  go  through  the  hell  that  leads  to  the  well,  and 

help  me  get  a  pail?" 

We  all  of  us  dropped  our  heads  and  blushed,  for  we 

weren't  so  keen  to  go 
Across  the  hills  on  a  night  like  this — it  was  fifty-six 

below. 
And  Jack  stepped  out  from  the  crowd  of  us,  and  his 

eyes  was  blazing  red. 
He  went  to  Jill,  and  he  cried  "I  will!"  "I've  got  the 

guts!"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  like  she  was  surprised,   but  she 

didn't  speak  at  all. 
So  he  followed  her  straight  across  the  path  that  leads 

from  One  Eye's  hall. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  67 

They  went  away  in  the  dark  of  the  night,  and  they  went 

without  a  sound, 
While  we  danced  about  till  the  lights  went  out,  when 

we  ordered  another  round. 


Next  morning,  as  some  of  us  went  to  work  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill, 

We  found  the  frozen  corpse  of  Jack,  and  the  clay  of 
Lady  Jill. 

And  Klondike  Jack  was  a  bloody  sight  that  made  us 
strong  men  quail, 

For  his  head  was  broke  from  a  hefty  soak  with  a  club — 
or  an  iron  pail. 

Well,  I'm  not  saying  what  took  place,  for  it  isn't  my 

job  to  tell ; 
And  none  of  us  truly  ever  knew  just  how  or  why  Jack 

fell. 
But  sometimes  we  think  as  we  sit  and  drink  our  little 

evening  swill, 
That  the  iron  pail  was  swung  by  the  frail  that  the 

boys  called  Lady  Jill. 


68  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Threnody 

Lilacs  blossom  just  as  sweet 

Now  my  heart  is  shattered. 
If  I  bowled  it  down  the  street, 

Who's  to  say  it  mattered? 
If  there's  one  that  rode  away 

What  would  I  be  missing? 
Lips  that  taste  of  tears,  they  say, 

Are  the  best  for  kissing. 

Eyes  that  watch  the  morning  star 

Seem  a  little  brighter; 
Arms  held  out  to  darkness  are 

Usually  whiter. 
Shall  I  bar  the  strolling  guest, 

Bind  my  brow  with  willow, 
When,  they  say,  the  empty  breast 

Is  the  softer  pillow? 

That  a  heart  falls  tinkling  down, 

Never  think  it  ceases. 
Every  likely  lad  in  town 

Gathers  up  the  pieces. 
If  there's  one  gone  whistling  by 

Would  I  let  it  grieve  me? 

Let  him  wonder  if  I  lie; 
Let  him  half  believe  me. 

DOROTHY  PARKER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  69 


The  T>oughboy  and  The  Cjob 

Said  the  Gob,  "Boy  howdy!  What's  the  word?"  The 
Doughboy  said,  "Old  son, 

You  got  us  safe  across  the  pond,  and  I  guess  we  got 
the  Hun." 

"Well,  we  helped  to  can  the  Kaiser.  Such  a  nerve  he 
had,  that  swab  I 

"Bet  he's  shakin'  in  his  breeches  now!"  said  the  Dough- 
boy to  the  Gob. 

"I  got  a  scratch  in  Belleau  Wood,"  the  Doughboy  said, 

"but  here's 
The  answer."  And  he  flashed  a  kitbag  full  of  souvenirs. 
"And  what  we  got  I  wisht  I  had;  I'd  wear  it  for  a 

fob— 
A  big  tin  fish  off  Ireland — bet  we  speared  him,"  said 

the  Gob. 

Said  the  Doughboy,  "I've  sure  had  enough  of  lacin'  up 

my  pants. 
And  you   needn't  ever   talk   to  me   about  no   'sunny 

France.' 
The  cootie  is  a  busy  bird.  We  certainly  et  some  beans. 
And  I  guess  we'll  have  to  hand  it  to  them  devil-dog 

Marines." 

Said  the  Gob,  "You're  right,  Old  Timer;  they  was 
THERE!  and  I  opines 


70  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

It  was  quite  some  cool  off  Heligo,    but   we    planted 

plenty  mines. 
We  itched  to  scrap  the  Heinies'  fleet,  but  they  was 

awful  coy. 
When  they  come  out,  their  flag  was  white."  Said  the 

Doughboy,  "Attaboy  I" 

"Who  was  them  Janes,"  the  Doughboy  asked,  "I  seen 

you  with  last  night?" 
"Some  class,  eh,  wot?"  the  Gob  said.   "Oy,  some  class, 

I'll  say,  is  right!" 
Said  the  Gob,  "Since  you've  come  back,  Old  Top,  I 

see  you're  quite  some  girled." 
"Yea,  Bo!"  replied  the  Doughboy.  "And  I'm  settin' 

on  the  world." 

Said  the  Doughboy  to  the  Gob,  "A  Tommy  ain't  no 

bloomin'  fool." 
"Why,  I  even  had  a  limey  for  a  pal  in  Liverpool," 
The  Gob  declared.    "And  Frenchies?    Oh,  la,  la,  you 

oughta  seen 
My  Madelon  at  Dijon!"  said  the  Doughboy.    "Sure! 

Some  queen!" 

"But  when  it  comes  to  settlin'  down — I  know  a  Red 
Cross  nurse" — 

"I  get  you,"  said  the  Doughboy,  "and  a  feller  might  do 
worse. 

Of  course,  there's  Nell  back  home — her  pitcher,  see?" 
"Oh,  boy,  some  squab!" 

"I  guess  Nell's  good  enough  for  me,"  said  the  Dough- 
boy to  the  Gob. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  71 

"Well,  the  old  war's  finished,"  said  the  Gob,  "and  I 

ain't  shed  a  tear. 
And  what  I'd  chiefly  like  to  know  is  where  do  we  go 

from  here?" 
"The  hours  was  long,"  the  Doughboy  said,  "the  chow 

was  often  sad. 
It  WAS  a  punk  old  war,  but  it  was  all  the  war  we  had." 

Said  the  Gob,  "Old  Kid,  I'll  blow  you  to  a  first-class 

movie  show — 
Old  Charlie  in  the  trenches."     And    the    Doughboy 

said,  "Let's  go!" 
"Well,  when  Uncle  Sam'l  said  the  word,  we  went  and 

done  the  job." 
"You  said  a  mouthful,  Buddy!"  said  the  Doughboy  to 

the  Gob. 


C.  A. 


72  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


The  Squanderers 

When  Spring  bequeathed  the  poplar 
Ten  thousand  leaves  of  gold, 

I  had  a  coin  for  every  coin 
The  poplar's  arms  could  hold. 

And  I  was  just  as  proud  then 

As  any  careless  king, 
And  I  was  stirred  as  easily 

As  poplars  are  in  Spring. 

Throughout  the  ardent  Summer 

I  could  not  be  outdone; 
For  each  gold  piece  the  poplar  spent 

I  flung  a  finer  one. 

But  now  we  both  are  beggars     .     .     , 
The  tree  no  longer  gleams, 

And  I  who  had  as  much  to  give 
Am  destitute  of  dreams. 


GEORGE  0  NEIL 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  73 


oAn  Intermezzo  for  the  fourth  *Act 

If  my  peculiar  pulchritude  in  Paris  seemed  to  please, 
Upon  the  Champs  Elysees  'mongst  the  blooming  chest- 
nut trees, 
Or  if  along  the  Rivoli  in  hell's  melange  of  men 
Which  bubbled  in  the  war  brew,  you  observed  me  now 

and  then ; 
Or  if  the  picture  rising,  of  my  roly-poly  form, 
A-toddle  down  the  boulevards  should  make  your  heart 

grow  warm — 
O  Phyllis,  wipe  that  picture  from  your  memory  cold 

and  flat — 
You  should  see  me  in  my  new  straw  hat! 

For  I'm  in  London  now,  my  dear,  in  London  old  and 

gray; 
And  spring  is  fading  in  the  past,  and  summer's  under 

way. 
But  London  is  a  decent  town,  polite  and  snug  and 

curt; 
It  breaks  her  heart  to  frivol  and  one  breaks  her  laws 

to  flirt! 
And  how  she  works  and  how  she  frets,  and  yet  she's 

always  sweet; 
So  I  am  here  in  London  for  to  give  the  town  a  treat. 
And  if  I'm  middle  aged  and  bald  and  slow  and  rather 

fat— 
You  should  see  me  in  my  new  straw  hat! 


74 


THE  CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 


Perhaps  we're  not  immortal,  lass,  but  O  I  wish  we 

were; 
Though  not  to  save  some  prudish  saint  or  pale  philo- 
sopher, 
I  want  to  find  those  lads  whom  life's  sweet,  poignant 

beauty  wracked, 
Who  had  to  duck  and  cut  the  show,  before  the  second 

act — 
Say  Schubert,  Keats,  or  Phidias,  those  olden,  golden 

boys — 
And  tell  them  something  of  the  play,  and  how  it  never 

cloys. 
For  I  have  seen  three  acts,  and  now  I'm  fifty — but,  at 

that, 
You  should  see  me  in  my  new  straw  hat! 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  75 


"3/aec  Olim  oJhCe minis se  luvabit" 

I 
Oh,  back  in  the  fall  of  nineteen-two,  when  I  was  a 

freshman  green, 
I  planned  to  be  one  of  the  cultured  few,  with  a  high 
and  beetling  bean. 

So  I  took  on  Latin,  and  German  IV, 
French,  History  V  (to  the  civil  war), 
Trig,  Algebra  I,  a  ghastly  bore 
— and  freshman  chemistree. 
Here,  then,  are  the  facts  I  still  retain  from  nineteen- 
two  and  three: 
We  1  won  the  "bloody  Monday"  fight,  and  made  the 

sophs  retire2, 
Dear  Lehigh  licked  the  football  team  3  by  a  score  that 
was  something  dire; 

Bill  4  came  on  from  Chicago  U. 
With    some    bar-room    stories  —  and    good    ones, 
too5; 
I  got  on  the  glee  club,  and  made  Psi  U,  and  sang  in  the 
chapel  choir. 

II 
As  a  sophomore,  I  am  proud  to  state,  I  was  taking  the 

hurdles  clear, 
I  dreamed  of  copping  the  old  Phi  Bete  by  the  end  of  my 
Junior  year. 

I  soaked  up  Logic,  and  Physics  III, 

French  Lit.  (I  was  there  with  the  loud  oui  oui) , 


76  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Psychology,  Shakespeare,  Verse — not  free 
— and  a  couple  of  courses  more. 
Here's  what  I  recall  as  I  look  back  on  nineteen-three 

and  four: 
Weary   chairmaned   the   Junior  prom    {his  girl   was 

Harriet  White)*, 
I  played  third  quarter  on   the  football  scrub,  while 
Loup  played  centre  and  right, 

Joe  Bauderman  ran  a  record  mile, 
The  baseball  team  was  perfectly  vile  7, 
/  made  the  track  team  after  awhile,  and  fussed  8  each 
Saturday  night. 

Ill 

By  Junior  year  I  had  laid  away  those  hopes  of  a  Phi 

Bete  key, 
But  I  toyed  with  the  thought  of  a  proud  M.  A.,  and 
a  possible  Ph.  D.; 

So  I  grabbed  off  Plato  and  Kant,  and  such, 
Church  History,  Banking  (the  worldly  touch!), 
The  German  bards — whom  we  termed  "them 
Dutch" 

— such  French  as  I  might  contrive; 
And  the  following  info,  still  adheres  from  nineteen- 

four  and  five. 
Tom  Reilley'sd  team  smeared  R.  P.  I.  to  the  tune  of  a 

large  amount10 : 
/  made  the  gym  and  the  track  teams  both11;  they  ducked 
Young  Blum  12  in  the  fount; 

The  glee  club  trip  was  a  Lakewood  treat, 
The  base  ball  team  got  badly  beat1'*, 
And  I  got  a  third  at  the  Wesleyan  meet  u — but  third 
place  didnt  count. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  77 

IV 

A  Senior  now,  I  was  bald  and  grey  with  the  studious 

life  I'd  led, 
But  proud  of  the  knowledge  stowed  away  in  my  small 
but  well-formed  head. 

I  killed  International   (so  called)   Law, 
Took  Spanish  and  Chaucer  (the  latter's  raw), 
Wound  up  with  a  thesis  on  Bernard  Shaw 
— how  much  of  that  stuff  still  sticks? 
Well,  here  is  the  dope  I  recollect  from  nineteen-five 

and  six: 
Bill  and  I  wrote  the  senior  show  {his  book  was  a  mere 

detail) 
And  Loup  played  "Elsie,  the  Cannibal  Queen/' —  and 
looked  like  a  half-dressed  whale; 

The  Senior  ball  was  a  dream  divine1*, 
The  Senior  banquet  was  mostly  wine, 
And  F.  P.  A.  ran  a  piece  of  mine  16  in  the  New  York 
Evening  Mail 

1.  That  is,  the  class  of  1906.  oi\ijle.u 

2.  Weary  won't  like  this,  but  it's  true. 

3.  46-0,  if  you  must  know. 

4.  William  LeBaron,  the  talented  author  of  "I  Love  You" — adv. 

5.  And  a  wonderful  song,  "Kansas." 

6.  And  maybe  he  wasn't  stuck  on  her. 

7.  As  usual. 

8.  Some  girl,  too.    She  married  shortly  after  that. 

9.  Major  T.  T.  Reilley,  D.  S.  C. 

10.  53—0,  no  less. 

11.  I  was  pretty  good,  too,  but  badly  handled.     I  know  I  could  have 

done  the  low  hurdles  in  26  if  Mike  Cann  had  only  understood  me. 
Stimmie  Draper  (Arthur  S.  Draper,  London  correspondent  of 
the  New  York  Tribune)  did  the  pole  vault  that  year.  He  was 
rotten. 

12.  I'm  not  sure  of  the  name.     He  was  going  to  sue  the  college,  or 

something,  but  didn't. 

13.  See  note  7. 

14.  The  track  up  there  is  so  narrow  that  only  three  of  us  could  run. 

15.  I  took  Adele  Martin,  a  queen.    She  married  Bill  Wildman  almost 

immediately  afterward. 

16.  It  wasn't  very  good. 


78  THE   CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 


The  £ons  of  zM*ary 

The  Sons  of  Martha  have  not  to  worry — of  that  their 

tetrarchs  will  take  good  care : 
And  they  care  not  a  whit  for  the  Sons  of  Mary,  what 

they  must  suffer  or  how  they  fare. 
The  Sons  of  Martha  demand  an  increase  (a  favorite 

indoor  game  that  they  play)  ; 
They  spout  and  they  riot  until  they  win  it — and  Mary's 

Sons  are  the  lads  that  pay. 

The  Sons  of  Mary  in  all  the  ages  have  dared  the  venture 
and  taken  the  chance; 

They  explore  earth's  riches  and  plan  the  bridges,  in- 
vent the  machinery,  design  the  plants. 

It  is  through  them  that  on  every  workday  the  Sons  of 
Martha  have  work  to  do, 

It  is  through  them  that  on  every  pay  day  the  Sons  of 
Martha  get  every  sou. 

They  say  to  the  railways,  "Be  ye  fashioned."   They  say 

to  the  ships  of  the  air,  "Go  fly." 
They  train  the  youth  and  they  heal  the  stricken;  the 

tears  of  the  mourner  they  help  to  dry. 
They  draft  the  maps  and  they  paint  the  pictures;  they 

carve  the  statue;  the  speech  they  speak — 
While  the  Sons  of  Martha  are  seeking  solely  to  do  less 

labor  for  more  per  week. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  79 

The  Sons  of  Mary  their  lives  have  given  to  fight  the 

fever  and  purge  the  filth ; 
They  graft  the  scion,  they  grow  the  blossom,  they  keep 

the  fields  of  the  world  in  tilth. 
They  write  the  book  and  they  chant  the  poem,  they 

make  the  music  and  dream  the  dream; 
They  to  the  Truth  bear  unselfish  witness;  they  have 

the  vision,  they  see  the  gleam. 

They  do  not  preach  that  their  only  duties  are  spread- 
ing dissension  and  going  on  strike; 

They  do  not  teach  that  it's  square  and  decent  to  scamp 
their  work  as  they  damn  well  like. 

They  aim  to  uphold  a  mind  of  fairness,  not  class  sus- 
picion and  social  strife, 

They,  too,  must  think  of  making  a  living — but  they 
sometimes  think  of  making  a  life. 

And  the  Sons  of  Martha  esteem  this  silly,  convinced 

that  Fortune  will  yield  reward 
To  him  that  has  the  most  brazen  thorax,  the  lightest 

head  and  the  strongest  sword. 
This,  it  seems,  is  the  sum  of  their  Credo — this  is  the 

way  their  reasoning  runs : 
"Let's  force  the  birthright  and  seize  the  blessing,  and 

lay  the  burden  on  Mary's  Sons!" 

G.  S.  B. 


80  .  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


The  Wide  Open  spaces 

The  hot  September  sun  shone  down  on  the  wide  and 

peaceful  bay, 
Where  the  mighty  fleet  of  England  in  warlike  grandeur 

lay, 
With  its  lines  of  black  mouthed  cannon,  and  its  crews 

of  white  capped  men, 
But  never  a  ship  of  all  the  fleet  so  staunch  as  the  Jolly 

Jen. 

But  Marion,  fair  Marion,  she  had  no  thought  of  fear 
As  she  leaped  into  the  saddle  with  a  loud  and  ringing 

cheer, 
And  then  gave  spur  and  rode  away  across  the  heathery 

plain, 
And  then  turned  round    her    palfrey,  and  rode  back 

home  again. 

What  then  of  the  road  to  Mandalay  and  the  boy  with 

the  twisted  knee, 
And  other  things  men  read    about,    but    seldom    or 

never  see? 
And  why  do  the  reapers  in  the  fields  and  the  toilers  in 

the  town 
Give  up  their  work  with  a  troubled  look,  and,  thinking, 

sit  them  down? 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  81 

And  dream  of  him  with  his  caravan,  as  he  toils  the 

sandy  way 
Across  the  wastes  of  Africa,  with  never  a  word  to  say ; 
With  one  hand  folded  behind  him  and  the  other  folded 

before, 
And  both  of  them  folded  together  as  they  were  in  the 

days  of  yore? 

So  peace  to  the  troubled  spirit,  peace  to  the  heaving 
breast, 

Peace  to  the  Chinese  thunder  thing  that  rises  in  the 
West, 

For  the  true  born  poet  cares  naught  for  sense  and  heeds 
nor  tide  nor  time 

As  long  as  he  makes  his  meters  mete  and  a  fairly  pass- 
able rhyme. 

OSCAR  H.  LEAR 


82  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


zA  "Ballad  of  the  great  War 

Oh,  'twas  back  in  the  fall  of  '17  that  I  went  as  a  volun- 
teer, 

For  the  war  was  raging  across  the  sea  and  the  war  was 
raging  here. 

And  every  lad  had  a  khaki  suit  and  a  sweater  and 
helmet  knit, 

And  a  shiny  mirror  made  of  tin  and  a  khaki  comfort 
kit. 

And  every  lad  had  a  luminous  watch  and  a  pair  of 
Munson  shoes, 

And  the  Poems  of  Robert  Service  bound  in  the  leather 
that's  known  as  ooze. 

Oh,  some  may  call  it  a  glorious  war,  but  we  soldiers 

knew  'twas  hell. 
We  were  stationed  up  at  Ithaca  at  a  place  that  they  call 

Cornell ; 
And  they  crammed  us  full  of  all  sorts  of  things,  and 

they  drilled  us  from  morn  till  night, 
And  we  learned  to  master  the  Lewis  gun  and  The 

Theory  of  Flight. 
And  as  we  lay  at  the  close  of  day  on  our  cots  when  our 

work  was  through, 
Some  guy  from  a  bunk  near  mine  would  spout  "The 

Shooting  of  Dan  Megrew." 

Yes,  they  drilled  us  hard  and  they  crammed  us  worse 
till  our  heads  they  were  busting  full, 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  83 

And  they  rode  us,  too,  and  the  worst  of  the  crew  was 
a  Lieut,  known  as  Franklin  Bull. 

No,  I  never  harked  to  the  cannon's  roar  nor  the  shriek 
of  a  shrapnel  shell, 

And  my  only  Huns  were  the  waiter  men  at  the  Ithaca 
Hotel. 

Yet  I  shudder  to  think  of  the  horrors  of  war  that  I  suf- 
fered at  Cornell  U., 

As  I  listened  in  bed  through  the  silent  night  to  "The 
Shooting  of  Dan  Megrew." 

A  fellow  named  Charlie  Hoffman  used  to  recite  it  each 

night  at  mess, 
I  remember  Thanksgiving  dinner,  wThen  he  performed 

it  with  great  success. 
Dick  Eustis  and  young  John  Meany,  and — need  I  name 

any  more? 
Why,  Henry  Churchill  did  it,  and  that  warrior,  Jack 

Hoare. 

Now  this  cruel  war  is  ended,  just  as  Milne  once  said 
it  would, 

And  I'm  through  with  the  horrors  of  warfare;  I'm  a 
veteran  now  for  good. 

And  I'm  done  with  the  well  known  army,  henceforth 
and  forevermore, 

And  they'll  have  to  catch  me  first  before  I'll  sign  for 
another  war. 

For  my  soul  is  wearing  a  service  stripe  for  the  suffer- 
ing I've  been  through, 

From  the  Poems  of  Robert  Service  and  "The  Shooting 
of  Dan  Megrew."  FLACCUS 


84  THE   CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 


ballade  for  <^hCissionaries 

The  brazen  form  of  the  great  god  Pan 
The  aged  gardener  had  polished  new. 
He  stood  there  now  with  his  cleaning  can, 
Gazed,  and  his  admiration  grew. 
Said  he,  "I  guess  there's  a  mighty  few 
Could  polish  him  up  as  good  as  me. 
I  shined  the  whole  of  him  like  a  shoe, 
And  there  he  is  as  he  ought  to  be." 

As  he  hobbled  away,  some  urchins  ran 

To  the  statue,  looking  for  trouble  to  brew, 

And  invented  the  altruistic  plan 

Of  dressing  the  god  (for  they  never  do). 

Crowned  with  a  cap  of  scarlet  hue, 

A  collar  and  tie — and — sapristi! 

A  cigarette  (it  is  lighted,  too). 

And  there  he  is  as  he  ought  to  be. 

Sudden  the  rumble  and  roar  began 

Of  approaching  thunder.   The  urchins  flew 

For  shelter,  leaving  the  god,  turned  man, 

Alone  to  meet  with  his  Waterloo. 

The  lightning  flashed  and  the  storm  wind  blew, 

Away  went  Pan's  haberdashery 

And  the  gardener's  polish.  The  wind  said  "Whew! 

And  there  he  is  as  he  ought  to  be!" 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  85 

I/ENVOI 

Read,  Missionaries,  this  ballad  through, 
Who  save  the  heathen  across  the  sea, 
For,  "give  him  clothes  and  a  prayer,"  say  you, 
"And  there  he  is  as  he  ought  to  be!" 

SQUIDGE 


The  flown 

While  men  went  brawling  in  the  sun 
With  love  and  laughter,  knowing  well 

They  trod  the  road  to-night  with  one 
Foot  in  the  grave  and  one  in  hell, 

He  sought  to  trap  the  eye  of  God 

With  pious  tricks,  and  warily 
Walked,  with  sterility  for  rod, 

A  tight-rope  to  eternity. 

J.  M.  S. 


86  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Thais 

One  time  in  Alexandria,  in  wicked  Alexandria, 

Where  nights  were  wild  with  revelry  and  life  was  but 
a  game, 

There  lived,  so  the  report  is,  an  adventuress  and  cour- 
tesan, 

The  pride  of  Alexandria,  and  Thais  was  her  name. 

Nearby,  in  peace  and  piety,  avoiding  all  society, 
There  dwelt  a  band  of  holy  men  who'd  built  a  refuge 

there ; 
And  in  the  desert's  solitude  they  spurned  all  earthly 

folly  to 
Devote   their    days   to    holy   works,  to  fasting  and  to 

prayer. 

Now  one  monk  whom  I  solely  mention  of  this  group 

of  holy  men 
Was  known  as  Athanael;  he  was  famous  near  and  far. 
At  fasting  bouts  or  prayer  with  him  no  other  could 

compare  with  him; 
At  ground  and  lofty  praying  he  could  do  the  course 

in  par. 

One  night  while  sleeping  heavily  (from  fighting  with 
the  devil  he 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  87 

Had  gone  to  bed  exhausted  while  the  sun  was  shining 

still), 
He  had  a  vision  Freudian,  and  though  he  was  annoyed 

he  an- 
Alyzed  it  in  the  well-known   style   of    Doctors   Jung 

and  Brill. 

He  dreamed  of  Alexandria,  of  wicked  Alexandria: 

A  crowd  of  men  were  cheering  in  a  manner  rather 
rude 

At  Thais,  who  was  dancing  there,  and  Athanael,  glanc- 
ing there, 

Observed  her  do  the  shimmy  in  what  artists  call  The 
Nude. 

Said  he,  "This  dream  fantastical  disturbs  my  thoughts 
monastical ; 

Some  unsuppressed  desire,  I  fear,  has  found  my 
monkish  cell. 

I  blushed  up  to  the  hat  o'  me  to  view  that  girl's  ana- 
tomy. 

I'll  go  to  Alexandria  and  save  her  soul  from  Hell." 

So,  pausing  not  to  wonder  where  he'd  put  his  summer 
underwear, 

He  quickly  packed  his  evening  clothes,  his  tooth- 
brush and  a  vest. 

To  guard  against  exposure  he  threw  in  some  woolen 
hosiery, 

And  bidding  all  the  boys  goodby,  he  started  on  his 
quest. 

The  monk,  though  warned  and  fortified,  was  deeply 
shocked  and  mortified 


88  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

To  find,  on  his  arrival,  wild  debauchery  in  sway. 
While  some  lay  in  a  stupor,  sent  by  booze  of  more  than 
two  per  cent., 
The  others  were  behaving  in  a  most  immoral  way. 

Said  he  to  Thais,  "Pardon  me.    Although  this  job  is 

hard  on  me, 
I  gotta  put  you  wise  to  what  I  came  down  here  to  tell. 
What's  all  this  sousin'  gettin'  you?    Cut  out  this  pie 

eyed  retinue; 
Let's  hit  the  train  together,  kid,  and  save  yourself  from 

Hell." 

Although  this  bold  admonishment  caused  Thais  some 
astonishment, 

She  coyly  answered,  "Say,  you  said  a  heaping  mouth- 
ful, bo, 

This  burg's  a  frost,  I'm  telling  you.  The  brand  of  hooch 
they're  selling  you 

Ain't  like  the  stuff  we  used  to  get,  so  let's  pack  up 
and  go." 

So  forth  from  Alexandria,  from  wicked  Alexandria, 
Across  the  desert  sands  they  go  beneath  the  blazing 

sun; 
Till  Thais,  parched  and  sweltering,  finds  refuge  in  the 

sheltering 
Seclusion  of  a  convent,  and  the  habit  of  a  nun. 

But  now  the  monk  is  terrified    to    find    his  fears  are 

verified : 
His  holy  vows  of  chastity  have  cracked  beneath  the 

strain. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  89 

Like  one  who  has  a  jag  on  he  cries  out  in  grief  and 

agony, 
"I'd  sell  my  soul  to  see  her  do  the  shimmy  once  again." 

Alas!   his   pleadings   clamorous,    the   passionate   and 

amorous, 
Have  come  too  late;  the  courtesan  has  danced  her  final 

dance. 
The  monk  says,  "That's  a  joke  on  me,  for  that  there 

dame  to  croak  on  me. 
I  hadn't  oughter  passed  her  up  the  time  I  had  the 

chance." 

FLACCUS 


Song  for  John  ffiftvard  Tayne  Week 

I  like  Nantucket; 

I  like  East  Lyme; 
But  I  love  New  York, 

With  its  noise  and  crime. 


J.  Q. 


90  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


"The  cPigeon-($careri 

Every  mornin'  I  useta  watch  and  wonder, 
While  all  them  pigeons  was  flyin'  around  his  head, 
What  was  he  doin'  with  that,  now,  fishin'-pole, 
Funny  and  blacklike,  and  the  sky  all  red. 

After  a  while  I  thought  he  must  be  crazy: 
Didn't  he  know  they  don't  catch  birds  that  way? 
But  still  he  done  it,  and  I  finely  goes 
Into  the  bird-store,  and  I  asts  'em,  "Say, 

"That  dizzy  gink  there,  'way  up  on  the  roof, 
What  is  he  doin' — what's  he  tryin'  to  prove?" 
They  says  he  was  a  reg'lar  pigeon-scarer, 
And  has  to  keep  them  pigeons  on  the  move. 

A  pigeon  is  a  lazy  thing,  you  see; 
They  like  to  set  around  and  hate  to  fly; 
But  if  you  let  'em,  then  they  clean  forget 
How  flyin'  is,  and  so  get  sick,  and  die. 

Now,  ain't  that  funny?    But  I  got  to  thinkin' 
How  Life  is  like  that;  and,  you  know,  it  seems 
Troubles  and  things  like  that  is  pigeon-scarers, 
And  pigeons  is  your  soul,  or  elset  your  dreams. 

If  everything  goes  right,  they  get  all  lazy, 
And  fat,  and  crawl  around  all  weak  and  slack; 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  91 

So  then  old  pigeon-scarer  comes  along, 

And  pokes  'em  up.  And  all  the  stren'th  comes  back 

Inta  your  dream-wings  or  your  soul-wings — see? — 
And — whish! — they  leave  the  lazy  parts  of  you 
Down  on  the  ground,  and  up,  'wTay  up,  they  go, 
Up  where  it's  clean,  and  beautiful,  and  blue. 

But  here's  the  sad  part,  when  you  come  to  think: 
They  sneak  back  to  the  place  he  chased  'em  from;1 
Always  they  get  back  to  the  lazy  ways — 
Always  the  pigeon-scarer  has  to  come. 

JOHN  V.  A.  WEAVER 


£a  T>erniere  Qhanson 

(From  the  Provencal) 

My  songs  are  done.  Your  love  was  not  for  me. 

The  carols  that  I  made  for  you  were  vain. 
All  that  I  hear  in  them  is  mockery 

And  taunting  echoes  breaking  through  each  strain. 

My  songs  are  done.    You  ask  me  to  forget 
Our  laughter — dreams — caresses — everything. 

...  If  only  I  did  not  discern  you  yet 
In  all  the  blinding  loveliness  of  Spring! 

ISOSCELES 


92  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


^A  Village  Idyl 

When  Greenwich  Village  gathers  nightly 
In  Pirates'  Den  and  Devils'  Cavern, 
In  Selma's  Cave  and  Toscha's  Tavern, 

The  poets  twinkle,  O  so  brightly! 

The  minstrels  of  the  motley  vesture 
In  lisping  accents  drool  their  verses; 
Their  rimes,  as  empty  as  their  purses, 

They  stutter  with  a  regal  gesture. 

The  bobbed-hair  ladies  rush  to  hand  them 
Applause  and  more  substantial  treasures; 
They  lisp  their  praise  of  limping  measures, 

Though  none  there  are  that  understand  them. 

There  came  one  night  to  Daphne's  Hang-out 
Clarissa,  Viscount  Gottem's  daughter, 
An  heiress  who  had  crossed  the  water 

To  dwell  a  while  where  genius  sang  out. 

And  as  she  came  Sylvester  Sopus, 
A  soul  unshackled  and  romantic, 
(Convention  drove  him  simply  frantic!) 

Was  chanting  this,  his  latest  opus: 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  93 

MY  LOVE 

My  love  is  a  lavender  star, 

sweeping,  pulsing,  throbbing, 

across  a  heliotrope  sky; 

my  life  is  a  beige  cloud — 

so  beige,  so  beige,  so  beige — 

yet  when  you  appear,  coruscating  you, 

a  rose-tinted  wind 

drives  away  the  cloud 

and  the  star  shines  forth, 

forth.    .    .forth.    .    .forth. 

Clarissa  listened,  temples  throbbing, 
Her  heart  ablaze,  her  pulses  humming, 
Her  ev'ry  complex  wildly  strumming 

And  then  embraced  Sylvester,  sobbing: 

"Your  song  invades  my  inmost  niches, 

It  fills  me  with  a  fierce  elation ; 

Let's  wed  and  live  in  sweet  vibration 
On  poetry — and  father's  riches!" 

Sylvester  sailed  and  Gottem  gave  him 
The  cash  to  purchase  boundless  pleasure, 
A  life  of  undiluted  leisure, 

With  valets  to  attend  and  shave  him. 

A  year  he  lived  in  ducal  fashion, 

But  ev'ry  day  his  bride  recited 

A  bit  of  verse  that  she'd  indited, 
A  piece  like  this,  declaimed  with  passion: 


94  THE   CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

MY  LOVE 

My  love  is  a  scarlet  harp, 

strung  with  purple  passions 

and  poppy-hued  desires; 

there  are  dreary  days 

when  it  is  mute.    .    . 

mute.   .   .mute.    .    .mute.   .    . 

there  are  other  days  when  you  are  with  me, 

tender  days  full  of  music, 

then  it  sings  madly.  .   . 

madly.  .  .madly.   .  . 

A  year  Sylvester  listened,  daily. 

His  brain  was  sore;  his  ears  were  aching, 

And  then  he  gave  it  up,  forsaking 
Clarissa  and  her  wealth  quite  gayly. 

And  now  whene'er  the  Muse  starts  strumming 

The  lyre  on  which  the  sonnets  glisten, 

Sylvester  will  not  even  listen — 
He  makes  an  honest  living,  plumbing. 

LESTER  MARK  EL 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


95 


Wild  Tlum 

They  are  unholy  who  are  born 

To  love  wild  plum  at  night, 
Who  once  passed  it  on  a  road 

Glimmering  and  white. 

It  is  as  though  the  darkness  had 

Speech  of  silver  words, 
Or  as  though  a  cloud  of  stars 

Perched  like  ghostly  birds. 

They  are  unpitied  from  their  birth 

And  homeless  in  men's  sight, 
Who  love  better  than  the  earth 

Wild  plum  at  night. 

ADUL  TIMA 


96  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


"J^ever  Tick  Wild  glowers" 

"Never  pick  wild  flowers!" 

That's  what  she  would  say; 
"Leave  'em  free  in  the  fields 

Where  they  can  play — 

"Play  and  be  beautiful 

Under  the  big  sky; 
If  you  take  'em  home 

Wild  flowers  die!" 

Then  she  shook  her  little  head, 

And  I  went  crazy 
Wantin'  her  standin'  there 

Like  a  brown-eyed  daisy. 

"Such  talk!"  I  thinks  then, 

"All  a  sweet  lie. 
Other  people  picks  'em — 

Why  shouldn't  I?" 

If  I  only  listened! 

What  have  I  done? 
"Never  pick  a  wild  love" — 

Where's  my  flowers  gone? 

JOHN  V.  A.  WEAVER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  97 


To  a  Qirl,  Upon  l^eturning 

I've  been  away,  to  far  Chicago, 
To  Omaha  and  to  Seattle, 
Los  Angeles  and  Kansas  City, 

And  to  Columbus. 
I  met  a  host  of  pretty  maidens, 
Apportioned,  one  to  every  village; 
To  each  I  said  my  nimble  nothings 

And  kept  on  moving. 

My  heart  was  charmed,  when  in  Chicago, 
By  Frances,  just  because  she  lifted 
Her  hands,  in  speaking,  lightly,  idly, 

The  same  way  you  do. 
In  Omaha  I  met  Katinka: 
She  listened  to  my  prattle,  smiling; 
I  thought  of  you,  the  way  you  listened, 

And  loved  her  for  it. 

And  Gladys,  grieving  in  Seattle, 
I  loved  because  she  cried  so  quickly. 
You  cry — and  oh,  how  well  I  know  it! — 

For  any  reason. 
Then  in  Los  Angeles  was  Hilda: 
Her  eyes  were  full  and  sweet  and  tender; 
She  looked  at  me  with  love,  as  you  do — 

I  thought  her  charming! 


98  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

In  Kansas  City,  where  Aileen  was, 

Again  of  you  was  I  reminded, 

Because  her  mouth,  like  yours,  was  mobile 

And  twisted  sweetly. 
And  Constance,  in  Columbus  township, 
Would  smooth  my  hand  with  gentle  fingers ; 
It  seemed,  what  haunting  hours  she  did  it, 

They  were  your  fingers. 

Now  I've  come  back,  to  watch  your  hands  lift; 
To  see  you,  while  I  prattle,  smiling; 
To  comfort  you,  when  you  are  weeping 

For  no  good  reason. 
Your  tender  eyes  will  beam  upon  me, 
The  while  I  watch  your  mouth  twist  sweetly. 
And  in  the  haunting  hours  of  twilight, 

I'll  clasp  your  fingers. 

But  this  I  know,  my  sweet,  already: 
When  you  do  these  things,  I'll  remember     .     .     . 
I'll  think  of  Gladys,  Frances,  Hilda — 
And  start  to  travel! 

GEORGE   JESTER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  99 


The  Italics  are  Cjeorge  <J)fCacdonaldy s 

[And  the  Broadway  answers  are  Marc  Connelly's] 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
The  Equity  Chorus  sent  me  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue? 
I  mixed  No.  5  with  some  No.  2. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin? 
That's  belladonna  I  just  dropped  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear? 

That's  glycerin.    Gosh,  you're  a  dumbell,  dear! 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high? 
A  rubber  gimmick  that  I  apply. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white  rose? 
Alabastine,  for  the  chin  and  nose. 

Whence  came  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss? 
I  used  court  plaster  to  get  me  this. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 

There's  lots  of  us  bringing  them  out  this  year. 


100  THE  CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands? 
Hustling  my  baggage  at  one-night  stands. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you? 
There's  nothing  publicity  men  can't  do. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
I  must  have  been  cuckoo I  exit  here. 


Toll  the  "Bell  for  "Damon 

Damon  died  young;  no  bell  was  tolled  for  him. 

He  was  the  sweetest  singer  of  us  all. 

No  man  has  found  the  fire  that  he  let  fall. 

It  left  us  dim. 

He  lived  across  the  way — Damon,  old  friend, 
Old  scout,  sweet  rascal,  lover  of  all  good  things — 
We  never  ask  him  why  he  never  sings 
Since  he  made  an  end. 

So  toll  the  bell  for  Damon ;  he  died  young, 
Turned  to  the  earth,  dust  unto  dust  allied. 
His  wife  has  never  noticed  that  he  died 
His  songs  unsung. 

MAXWELL  ANDERSON 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  101 


To  £dna  ^t.  'Vincent  <^hGllay 

In  the  ripples  of  your  books 
Flicker  bare  and  bated  hooks 
Like  the  honesties  and  lies 
In  your  evanescent  eyes; 
And  I  follow  them  and  sigh, 
Wishing  that  a  trout  were  I. 

Better  fins  and  gills  and  speckles 
Than  a  coat  of  shams  and  shekels, 
Better  torture  on  a  hook 
Than  upon  a  barbed  book, 
Barbs  of  beauty,  barbs  of  pain, 
Barbs  of  growing  young  again! 

WITTER  BYNNER 


102  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


*A  ^tory-Tellers  Qhantey 

I've    shivered    in    Saskatchewan    and     blistered    in 
Penang — 

Life's  a  feather,  life's  a  tune,  life's  a  copper  cent! 
I've  heard  the  song  at  Noel  the  old  carillon  rang — 

Life's  a  pretty  pattern  till  the  young  blood's  spent! 
I  like  to  rotted  in  T'ai  Yuan    till    Sowerby    ran    me 
down — 

Life's  a  gamble,  life's  a  drink,  life's  a  bitter  load! 
But  now  I'm  just  a  proper  person  living  in  a  town.     .     . 

Grinning  yellow  faces  on  the  Shau  Yang  Road! 

Life's  a  string  of  pictures  hanging  up  to  dry — 
Who  will  buy  my  memories?   Pretty  colors!   Buy! 

I've  still  a  little  boyhood  left  to  sing! 

Step  on  my  magic  carpet .  .  .  take  my  hand  .  .  . 
Chicago!    Ninety-five!    The  time  is  spring! 

We  see  a  youth  who  couldn't  understand 
The  importance  of  Field's  Wholesale  or  of  Yale, 

But  in  the  Palmer  House,  with  a  lucky  few, 
Watched  old  Jake  Schaefer  nurse  them  down  the  rail, 

While  student  Slosson  chalked  an  idle  cue; 
Who  found  the  wheat  pit  sordid,  women  queer; 

But  in  Hall's  Casino  viewed  the  waxwork  den 
Of  honors,  or  went  two  flights  up  to  hear 

Rice,  Blackford,  Winter  .  .   .    There  were  minstrels 
then! .  .  . 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  103 

Or  roved  the  smoky  streets  a  child  of  Mars 

In  glinting  helmet,  spear  that  dripped  with  gore, 

Solemnly  happy,  tilting  at  cable  cars 

And  slaying  dragons  near  the  Boston  Store. 

He  never  saw  what  you  and  I  behold, 

But  spoke  with  Kings  and  trod  the  Cloth  of  Gold. 

Or  the  red  hills  of  Shansi!    The  red  hills  of  Han! 

That  swim  in  golden  vapor  when  the  sun  goes  down! 
Camels  from  Mongolia,  carts  from  Sze-chuan, 

Musk  and  spice  and  sesamum,  red-walled  town. 

How  shall  I  paint  you  so  that  they  may  see  .  .  . 

Plum  and  apple  blossoms,  temple  green  and  gray; 
Painted  face  in  palanquin  looking  out  at  me, 

Fighting  over  feng-shui  on  the  Thibet  way? 

How  shall  I  paint  you,  twin  pagodas  on  the  heights? 

Evening  in  a  village — quav'ring  flageolet, 
Young  men  kicking  shuttle  cock,  old  men  flying  kites, 

Men  in  satins  sipping  tea?  ...  I  who  can't  forget? 

How  shall  I  picture  that  night  in  old  T'ai  Yuan  .  .  . 
Crooked  streets  and  shadows  and  things  with  leopard 
tread; 
The  guards  with  pistol,  knife  and  gun  .  .  .  That  soldier 
with  a  fan!  .  .  . 
And  oh,  the  dark  that  shut  me  in!  The  rain,  the  chill, 
the  dread! 

Or  if  a  gentler  flavor  you  desire, 

I'll  paint  you  pleasant  scenes  of  long  ago  .  .  . 


104  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

A  bit  of  Simpson  Street,  a  country  choir, 

Shy  girls  with  pretty  ways.   You  didn't  know 

That  once  there  lived  that  sort?   Or  you  may  sail 
With  Hunch  Badeau,  who  shipped  a  load  of  pine, 

Then  drove  his  drunken  schooner  through  the  gale 
To  give  his  loved  one  to  Bruce  Considine. 

Or  we'll  go  vagabonding  in  Touraine, 

And  wander  on  to  Egypt  and  to  Ind : 
On  flying  carpet  sweep  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  slant  along  to  Frisco  down  the  wind! 
Thence  on  to  Singapore  .  .  .  On,  fairy  boat, 

Drifting  till  cares  slip  off  and  life  stands  least, 
Where  'gainst  the  fleecy  tropic  heaven  float 

The  green  enchanted  islands  of  the  East! 

Or  if  we  turn  from  pleasant  scenes  and  far, 

Not  even  broken  Europe  nor  the  sight 
Of  faiths  gone  bankrupt  in  the  hell  of  war 

Shall  daunt  us,  for  above  us  shines  the  light 
Of  romance,  and  we  know  that  where  youth  treads 

Hope  strides;  a  fresh    world's    making:    life's    all 
new  .  .  . 
And  so  with  just  these  dingy-seeming  threads 

I'll  weave  a  glowing  tapestry  for  you. 

To  catch  again  the  story-teller's  gift 

That  in  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer  dwelt, 
To  know  with  them  that  splendid  primal  lift, 

To  feel  what  Malory,  Shakespeare,  Dickens  felt! 
With  these  all  heights  to  scale,  all  depths  to  plumb, 

Of  the  phantasm  men  call  living!  Leave  behind 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


105 


The  pundit  critic  with  his  measuring  thumb 
And  little  comic  uncreative  mind! 

Life's  a  string  of  pictures  hanging  up  to  dry  .  .  . 
Who  will  have  my  memories?  Pretty  colors!  Buy! 

SAMUEL  MERWIN 


Confession 

It  may  be  just  the  way  you  have  of  talking, 
It  may  be  just  your  dimple  that  you  prize; 

Or  possibly  your  smile,  or  your  own  peculiar  style, 
Or  maybe  the  expression  in  your  eyes. 

Perhaps  the  kind  of  clothes  you  have  been  wearing, 
Perhaps  it's  just  the  little  things  you  say, 

Or  possibly,  perchance,  it's  the  way  you  sing  and  dance. 
Or  your  all-around  demeanor,  anyway — 

I  know  you  are  indifferent  to  my  ravings, 

(And   frankly,    I    don't  care  much  how  they  strike 
you); 
I  cannot  tell  right  now  what  it  is;  but  anyhow 
There's  something  makes  me  certain  I  don't  like  you. 

FRITZ 


106  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


To  a  U^Qw-^Born  Infant 
(Newman  Levy,  the  w.  k.  Flaccus,  et  ux.,  parents) 

Ululant,  bald,  tomato-colored  morsel, 
Who  would  believe,  to  look  upon  your  face 
Or  birdseyeview  your  panorama  dorsal, 
That  you're  a  member  of  the  Newman  race? 

You  yowl,  and  beat  the  unoffending  pillow; 
You  squirm,  and  twist  your  clothes  into  a  bunch; 
You  curl  yourself  up  like  an  armadillo; 
You  think  of  lunch,  lunch  now,  and  only  lunch. 

And  still,  beneath  the  yet  unknitted  sutures 
Above  your  indecipherable  nose 
Lies  hid,  perhaps,  the  brilliantest  of  futures — 
What's  inside  seldom  on  the  outside  shows. 

Your  grandma,  gazing  on  your  new-born  father, 
Doubtless  believed  him  one  of  Nature's  slips; 
And  I've  thought  too  (though  it  was  catty,  rather) , 
"Is  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  quips?" 

Yes,  yes;  you  too,  in  maidhood's  happy  hour, 
May  bid  for  fame  with  pencil  and  with  pad 
Inditing  wheezes  for  The  Conning  Tower, 
Even  as  yours  sincerely  and  your  dad. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  107 

Eheu  fugaces!    We  are  lean  and  slippered! 

Youth  flies,  as  you'll  discover  some  day,  too. 
And  even  though  you  do  look  slightly  kippered, 
Gosh !  how  I  wish  I  were  again  like  you ! 

BARON  IRELAND 


^onnet 

I  like  a  guy  to  pull  the  caveman  stuff; 

I  never  had  much  use  for  cutey-cutey 

And  la-de-da  and  my,  ain't-you-a-beauty! 
I  always  like  my  loving  kind  of  rough — 
A  husky  brute  that  treats  his  women  rough. 

Not  one  that  jumps  around  you  like  a  cootie 

And  gets  all  mushy  slushy  tutti  frutti, 
But  sits  on  you  and  calls  your  little  bluff. 

You  came  and  you  were  soft,  and  what  a  spender! 

You  bought  me  perfume,  candy,  flowers,  and  junk; 

And  hats  and  furs,  and  pulled  a  lot  of  bunk 
About  us  women  being  frail  and  slender, 

And  needing  to  be  coddled  like  a  kid. 

And  did  I  fall  for  you?    I'll  say  I  did. 

THE  UNVARYING  SHORE 


108  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


To  the  Younger  (feneration 

I  like  you,  though  I  feel  your  scorn, 
And  cannot  share  your  blithe  vivacity 

As  you  rebuild  a  world  reborn 
To  joy,  to  courage,  to  veracity. 

I  like  your  clothes — what  few  you  wear — 
Your  clean,  Greek  bodies  tuned  for  action ; 

I  like  your  girls  with  boyish  hair, 
No  manners — and  no  petrefaction. 

I  like  the  straight,  contemptuous  glances 
Your  cool  ironic  eyes  dart  round  you; 

Not  even  your  paganized  romances 

Oppress  me  as  they  should — confound  you! 

Strayed  revellers  from  authority, 

You  lack  perhaps  the  charm  of  measure, 

And  steal  green  apples  from  the  Tree 
Of  Life,  miscalling  greenness  pleasure. 

And  yet,  your  laughter  has  a  ring 

Clear  as  clear  bells!   I  love  your  laughter, 

Like  diamond  pebbles  from  a  sling 

Shot  forth — and  Giants  died  thereafter! 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  109 

Old,  crafty  Ogres,  Pompous  Lies, 

Smug  Pruriencies  and  Bald  Conventions; 

The  pebbles  flash ;  Goliath  dies — 
Scarce  understanding  your  intention. 

Indeed,  I  like  most  everything 

You  say  or  do  or  sing,  and  only 
Sigh  that  your  fiddles  lack  one  string 

Whose  lost  vibrations  leave  me  lonely. 

That  string  is — how  to  name  it,  though? 

How  name  it  so  that  you  may  hear  it 
Named,  without  mockery?    Ah  no, 

You  must  not  mock  so  blest  a  spirit. 

The  spirit  who  saved  for  you  this  world 
(Such  as  it  is — no  Heavenly  City 

Nor  yet  God's  Curse  through  Chaos  hurled!) 
Whose  perfect,  gentle  name  is — Pity. 

Re-set,  re-tune  that  banished  string, 

Young  godlike  mortals,  lest  when  older — 

And  eaglet  hopes  have  taken  wing — 

You  find,  as  I,  your  world  grown  colder. 

Ah  well,  advice  is  cheap  enough     .     .     . 

You  are  not  listening — God  speed  you 
And  help  you,  if  you  pull  this  stuff 

When  your  eugenic  sons  succeed  you! 

LEE  WILSON  DODD 


110  THE   CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 


Gjreek  Temples 

And  after  all,  what  is  there  here  to  thrill 

The  senses,  what  live  beauty  here  that  sings 
Deep  to  heart?  Ruined  temples  on  a  hill, 

Passion  and  pathos  of  dead  perfect  things, 
Golden  brown  columns,  rhythmic  spaces,  blue 

That  throbs  intensely  in  the  sky  and  sea, 
Soft  rolling  mountains,  and  the  reddening  hue 
Of  sun  on  sandstone.   What  else  can  there  be? 
Or  do  there  loiter  in  the  falling  light 

White,  slender  forms  that  once  made  music  here? 
Do  we  catch  echoes  in  the  wind  to-night 

Of  their  unstilled  voices  rising  cool  and  clear, 

Or  do  the  young  gods  once  more  as  we  dream 
Stand    bright    and    breathing    in    the    twilight 
gleam? 

IRWIN 

Girgenti,  Sicily. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  111 


Them  Was  The  lights 

Them  was  the  nights,  lads;  ah,  them  was  the  nights 
When  the  main  street  was  lit  by  the  restaurant  lights; 
When  the  rollicking  song  of  good  humor  at  play 
Came  out  through  the  transom  of  every  cafe  — 
A  black-face  comedian  doing  a  turn, 
The  bartender  giving  a  cocktail  a  churn, 
The  beer  mugs  a-spry  like  good  soldiers  at  drill 
And  each  with  a  draught  that  a  hogshead'd  fill; 
The  walls  pictured  over  with  show-girls  in  tights — 
Them  was  the  nights,  lads;  ah,  them  was  the  nights. 

Them  was  the  nights,  lads;  ah,  them  was  the  nights 
When  a  round  of  the  town  was  a  round  of  delights; 
When  a  dime  bought  a  bracer  to  do  your  heart  proud 
And  a  dollar  was  good  for  the  beers  for  the  crowd ; 
A  travelling  bard  with  a  battered  guitar, 
And  glad  to  perform  for  a  nickel  cigar, 
Or  easing  his  melody  out  to  the  bunch 
For  the  price  of  a  drink  or  a  plate  of  free  lunch; 
The  easy-made  friendships,  the  free-for-all  fights  — 
Them  was  the  nights,  lads;  ah,  them  was  the  nights. 

'Taint  that  way  now,  though;  the  old  days  has  flown, 
The  Eighteenth  Amendment's  a  way  of  its  own; 
It's  stuff  for  embalming  they  sell  on  the  sly, 
And  the  man  who  would  drink  must  be  ready  to  die; 


112  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

It's  treason  you  do  if  you  bolster  your  hip 

Or  whisper  your  order  at  fifty  a  nip. 

In  movie  theaters,  where  seats  cramp  our  shins 

And  the  plays  of  society  flauntin'  its  sins, 

We  dream  of  the  time  when  a  man  had  some  rights — 

Them  was  the  nights,  lads ;  ah,  them  was  the  nights. 

J.  V.  H. 


^Annotation 

When  she  undresses,  the  curtain 

Is  high  as  it  can  be. 
That  she  has  a  body 

Is  there  for  all  to  see. 

But  when  she  prays,  the  blind's  closed, 

She  fastens  every  rod. 
That's  a  thing  to  hush  up, 

That  she  has  a  God. 

ELEANOR 


THE   CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  113 


The  (§eddons 

Friday,  the  17th,  was  Carrie's  birthday. 

So  on  the  13th  Jim  Seddon  decided  to  buy  her  a  sable 

neckpiece. 
Like  most  men,  he  didn't  know  a  sable  from  a  minute 

steak — 
And  knew  he  didn't. 
So,  in  fear  and  trembling,  Jim  asked  the  girl  that  works 

in  his  office  to  help  him  pick  it  out. 
You   know  Jim.     He  has  about  as  much  use  for  any 

woman  but  Carrie  as  you  and  I  have  for  last  year's 

straw  hat. 
And  until  he  asked  Miss  Verdon — that  was  the  girl's 

name,  Elsie  Verdon — to  help  him  pick  out  sables, 

the  only  words  outside  business  he'd  ever  uttered 

in  his  life  to  her  was  "Good  morning"  and  "Good 

evening." 
You  know  Jim  .... 

Well,  off  they  went  to  Furness's  to  get  the  neckpiece. 
Manlike,  Jim  wanted  to  get  the  darned  thing  over  as 

quickly  as  possible — 
And  womanlike,  Miss  Verdon  didn't  want  to  hurry  it. 
She  wasn't  trying  on  sables  every  day,  and  the  thrill 

women  get  out  of  that  sort  of  thing  was  too  rare 

to  hustle  through  in  a  few  minutes. 
So  there  they  were, 
Jim,  trying  to  look  wise  and  critical  as  Miss  Verdon 

tried  on  skin  after  skin. 


1 14  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

The  spirit  of  the  thing  got  into  her  somehow,  and, 
knowing  she'd  never  get  a  chance  to  wear  the  thing 
again,  she  lingered  lovingly  over  her  job. 

Natural,  wasn't  it? 

Jim  swore  that  the  mere  delight  of  handling  the  sables 
put  a  new  light  into  the  girl's  eyes. 

She  looked  almost  pretty,  he  said  to  himself. 

Well,  just  as  he'd  about  made  up  his  mind,  or  rather 
just  as  Miss  Verdon  had  made  it  up  for  him,  and 
he  was  in  the  act  of  saying:  "I'll  take  this," 

In  walked  Mrs.  Lawson,  Carrie's  mother. 

Jim  said  he  never  felt  so  embarrassed  in  his  life. 

Mrs.  Lawson  glared  at  him  and  glared  at  the  girl. 

Jim  tried  to  explain,  and  his  tongue  clove — that's  the 
word,  isn't  it? — to  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

He  tried  to  smile,  and  the  more  he  tried  the  hotter  he 
got. 

He  knew  he  looked  guilty  as  hell  .... 

I  won't  prolong  the  agony.   You  can  guess  the  rest. 

Before  Carrie's  birthday  came  round,  Jim  was  served 
with  the  papers. 

I  saw  them — Seddon  vs.  Seddon  and  Elsie  Verdon. 

That's  how  I  knew  her  name  was  Elsie. 


P.  W. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  115 


cPoe?ns  in  Praise  of  Practically  Nothing 

I 
You  buy  some  flowers  for  your  table; 
You  tend  them  tenderly  as  you're  able; 
You  fetch  them  water  from  hither  and  thither  — 
What  thanks  do  you  get  for  it  all?    They  wither. 

II 
Only  the  wholesomest  foods  you  eat; 
You  lave  and  you  lave  from  your  head  to  your  feet; 
The  earth  is  not  steadier  on  its  axis 
Than  you  in  the  matter  of  prophylaxis; 
You  go  to  bed  early,  and  early  you  rise; 
You  scrub  your  teeth  and  you  scour  your  eyes — 
What  thanks  do  you  get  for  it  all?    Nephritis, 
Pneumonia,  appendicitis, 
Renal  calculus  and  gastritis. 

Ill 
You  get  a  girl;  and  you  say  you  love  her; 
You  pan  the  comparative  stars  above  her; 
You  roast  the  comparative  roses  below  her; 
You  throw  the  bull  that  you'll  never  throw  her  — 
What  thanks  do  you  get?   The  very  first  whozis 
Who  tips  his  mitt,  with  him  she  vamooses. 


116  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

IV 

You  buy  yourself  a  new  suit  of  clothes; 

The  care  you  give  it,  God  only  knows; 

The  material,  of  course,  is  the  very  best  yet; 

You  get  it  pressed  and  pressed  and  pressed  yet; 

You  keep  it  free  from  specks  so  tiny — 

What  thanks  do  you  get?   The  pants  get  shiny. 

V 
You  practise  every  possible  virtue; 
You  hurt  not  a  soul,  while  others  hurt  you; 
You  fetch  and  carry  like  a  market  basket; 
What  thanks  do  you  get  for  it?    Me  don't  ask  it! 

VI 

You  leap  out  of  bed;  you  start  to  get  ready; 

You  dress  and  you  dress  till  you  feel  unsteady; 

Hours  go  by,  and  you're  still  busy 

Putting  on  clothes,  till  your  brain  is  dizzy. 

Do  you  flinch,  do  you  quit,  do  you  go  out  naked? — 

The  least  little  button,  you  don't  forsake  it. 

What  thanks  do  you  get?  Well,  for  all  this  mess,  yet 

When  night  comes  around  you've  got  to  undress  yet. 

SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  117 


*A  Qopyreader '  s  T>ream  of  Cjfair  Women 

I  dreamed  I  read  from  off  the  city  wire 
Legends  of  fair  women,  in  deep  woe 

Twanged  on  the  hungry  space-writer's  brass  lyre 
To  cop  some  bootleg  dough. 

I 
Brazen  Chloe,  the  first  flapper,  whose  bare  shank 

Bedazzled  the  scented  sapheads  of  old  Rome, 
Incarnate  now  in  Broadway  homespun  swank, 

Leaped  out  old  Horace's  Pome: 

"Don  t  Beat  Masher" 
Blonde  Asks  Crowds; 

"I  Pinched  Him  First" 

ii 
I  saw  a  phiz  from  out  the  Billboard's  pale, 

Wreathed  in  the  smoke  of  Milo  cigarettes, 
Scorning,  despite  the  Daily  News'  low  wail, 

The  alibi  of  soubrettes: 

"Stage  or  Husband?" 
"Bunk"  Says  Actress; 
"I  ^uit  Him  for  More" 


118  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

III 

At  length  I  met  a  Lady  in  the  Hall 

Standing  Dry-eyed  before  the  Talesmen  there, 

A  Smith  &  Wesson  Dame,  unkindly  tall, 
But  most  divinely  "fair": 

"Just  Plain  Murder; 
My  Mind  Didnt  Go 
Blank"  Wife  s  Plea 

IV 

And  lo!  from  out  the  Trumpet  swiftly  came 

A  note  no  Baldric-bearer  blew  of  old, 
A  merchant's  widowed  Hideous  Beldame, 

Armed  to  the  teeth  with  gold : 

"Of  Course  Hell  Wed 
Me  for  Money,  What 
Else?"  Grins  Ddtoager 

LONG  JOHN  SILVER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  119 


The  Qity  of  Towers 

This  is  a  place  I  would  not  choose  to  stay 
While  meadows  keep  their  light  and  forests  sway, 
While  seas  and  lakes  and  flowing  rivers  shine 
And  hills  roll  westward  in  a  careless  line.    .    .    . 

I  would  prefer  to  see  a  glowing  face 
Kindled  with  ardor  in  a  quiet  place, 
And  silent  broken  leaves  beneath  my  feet, 
To  all  those  eyes  that  signal  in  the  street. 

Where  there  is  distance  and  the  hills  are  long, 
Solace  is  easier,  and  tranquil  song; 
And  the  meadow  in  the  heart  forever  mars 
This  city  where  the  towers  tilt  at  stars. 

GEORGE  0'NEIL 


120 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


T>ie  Walkuere 
(Dedicated  to  Montague  Glass) 

A  schone  mashpocha,  them  Hundings!   That  rosher 
Old  Marcus  Hunding,  I  never  knew  it  such  a  feller 
in  my  life. 
And    his    wife    Siegel    Hinda  ain't  just  what  you'd 
maybe  call  Kosher, 
The  way  she  carried  on  with  that  guy  Sigmund,  be- 
lieve me,  you  should  now  have  it  such  a  wife! 
Wie  heisst  Siegel  Hinda?  In  the  old  country  yet  was  it 
Hinda  Siegel  good  enough  for  her  before  she  got 
swell, 
When  her  husband  bought  it  a  bungle-loaf  up  in  Sulli- 
van County  (ten  dollars  a  month  and  twenty- 
five  down  on  deposit) 
With  a  tree  growing  in  the  middle  and  a  sword 
stuck  in  it  like  a  cozy  corner  in  the  Arverne 
Hotel. 
Nu,  one  night  when  Hunding  ain't  yet  come  up  on  the 
five-thirty 
(Might'll  be  he's  playing  a  little  pinochle  with  the 
boys  and  missed  his  train) 
Comes  a  fellow  by  the  name  Sigmund  Walinsky  all 
soaking  wet  like  a  fish,  and  dirty, 
And  with  oser  a  word  lays  down  by  the  open-work 
fire-place  out  of  the  rain. 
"Might  you  should  be  so  kind,"  he  says,  "I  could  have 
a  drink  of  water?" 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  121 

"Nebich  I'll  get  it  myself,"  says  Siegel  Hinda.   "It's 
so  hard  here  in  the  mountains  to  keep  maids." 
And  she  brings  in  a  pitcher  what  Hunding  for  her  last 
wedding  anniversary  bought  her, 
When  in  comes  Hunding,  looking  mad  like  he  had 
just  went  bait  on  a  four  hundred  hand  in  spades. 
Awhile    they   schmoos;    then    Hunding  says  to  him, 
uMaybe 
Might'll  be  you  are  a  relation  by  Walinsky  Bros, 
from  Little  Falls?" 
"No,"  says  Sigmund,  "I  ain't  got  no  relations  in  this 
country.  My  whole  mashpocha  died  when  I  was 
a  baby. 
My   father,    olav    hasholem,   came  from  Cracow  and 
heisst  Waelse. 
One  time  when  my  father  selig  is  gone  out  fishing, 
Comes  a  lowlife   baitzemer   and  murders  my  mother, 
olav    hasholem,    and    kidnaps    my    little    sister 
away. 
Hunding  the  feller's  name  is,  and  I'm  wishing 

Only  I  should  run  into  that  rosher  some  fine  day." 
"You  should  live  so  long!"  cries  Hunding  getting  mad 
like. 
"A  chutzpah,  you  should  talk  so  here  in  my  house 
under  my  very  face. 
To-night  you  can  sleep  here,  God  forbid,  because  you're 
looking  kinder  tired  and  bad  like, 
But  to-morrow  we'll  fight  it  a  duel  fight,  so  help  me, 
and  I'll  schmier  you  up  all  over  the  place." 
After,  when  Hunding's  in  bed  and  sleeping  quiet, 
Siegel  Hinda  sneaks  out  in  the  dining  room  where 
Sigmund  is  laying  on  the  floor. 


122  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

"Quick!"  she  says.  "Der  Goy  schlaft.  Let's  get  out  from 
here  before  he  could  start  a  riot." 
So  Sigmund  pulls  the  sword  out  which  it  is  stuck  in 
the  tree  and  after  they  sing  a  loud  song  for  ten 
minutes  or  half  an  hour,  they  go  out  the  door. 
In  a  wild  place  in  the  mountains,  all  rocky  and  hilly, 
A  crowd   of   fat  circus   riding    girls   are  standing 
around,  making  an  awful  geschrei, 
"Oi,  oi,  oi — yo!"  they  yell,  which  it  all  sounds  kind  of 
silly. 
Comes  a  very  fat  one  by  the  name  Broun  Hilda,  who 
looks  like  maybe    she    is    from    the    Heywood 
Broun  mashpocha,  and  joins  in  the  cry. 
Her  father  Wotan,  which  he  is  the  same  Waelse  that 
Sigmund    tells     about,   only   he   ain't   died   in 
Cracow — his  first  wife  Erda  is  her  mother — 
Says,  "Hilda,  my  wife  Fricka  says  we  got  to  help 
it  Hunding  should  win  the  fight. 
If  you  only  knew  the  life  I  got  with  that  woman.     If 
it  ain't  one  thing,  y'understand,  it's  another." 
And  Hilda  says,  "I  got  it  rachmonis  for  that  Sig- 
mund, but  if  you  say  so,  Pa,  all  right." 
Now  comes   Sigmund,   and   Hunding  after  him  like 
Jake  Dempsey  fighting, 
When  Hilda  butts  in,  and  tries  to  make  it  Sigmund 
should  win  instead.  ^ 

All  of  a  sudden  Wotan  rushes  out  all  mad  and  exciting, 
"A  business!"  he  says  and  gives  Sigmund  a  schlag 
and  the  poor  schlemiehl  falls  down  dead. 
"Nu,"  says  Wotan  to  Hilda,  when  he  afterwards  found 
her, 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  123 

"It  ain't  my  fault,  y'understand   me,    but   my  wife, 
unbeschreien,  says  I  must  punish  you  for  acting 
that  way." 
So  he  puts  her  to  sleep  on  a  rock  and  builds  a  swell  bun- 
fire  around  her, 

And  there  she  sleeps  with  the  thermometer  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  degrees  in  the  shade  ...  A 
meshuggina  play! 

FLACCUS 


7(u  "Klux 

Kowards  who  kover  their  faces, 
Kaitiffs  who  skulk  in  their  shrouds, 

Kankers — the  Kountry's  disgraces, 
Kravens — Kourageous  in  krowds. 

Killers  where  Faction  defends  them, 

Kurs  who  will  bite  if  they  kan, 
Kut-throats  when  darkness  befriends  them — 

Kaps  in  the  air  for  the  Klan! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 


124  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Wires  strung  with  diamonds, 
Shanties  decked  in  white, 

Our  shabby  little  village 
Turned  lovely  overnight. 

If  I  were  dressed  in  satin, 
With  diamonds  in  my  hair, 

Do  you  think,  perhaps,  that  some  one 
Would  say  that  I  was  fair? 


I.  V.  s.  w. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  125 


"Poems  in  Praise  of  Practically  everything 


After  October,  comes  November, 

Then,  after  that,  we  have  December 

With  cold  and  snow,  and  then  the  very 

Parlous  month  of  January. 

The  North  wind  howls,  the  gray  slush  blubbers, 

Aha,  you  laugh,  you're  wearing  rubbers! 

You're  full  of  mufflers,  chest-protectors, 

Aspirin,  and  flu  deflectors; 

You  don't  go  out  when  you're  overheated — 

Disease  may  lurk,  but  you  can  beat  it. 

Well,  all  of  a  sudden,  you  clutch  your  thorax, 

You  have  a  pain,  you're  pale  as  borax; 

You  sneeze,  you  bark,  your  head  feels  thicker — 

Well,  what  are  you  sore  about?    Some  get  sicker! 

II 
You  fall  in  love,  it's  a  common  habit; 
You  act  as  nutty  as  a  rabbit; 
Even  a  dial  phone  seems  simple: 
You  call  her  up  and  you  praise — a  dimple; 
She  says  she  loves  you;  it  doesn't  seem  human: 
But  that  is  a  thing  peculiar  to  women; 
You  feel  like  Hermes,  Ajax,  Caesar; 
You  do  a  million  things  to  please  her; — 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  you're  down  in  limbo: 


126  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

She  leaves  you  flat  for  another  bimbo; 

You  turn  on  women,  you  curse,  abuse  'em — 

Well,  what  are  you  sore  about?    Some  can't  lose  'em! 

Ill 
You  work  and  work  till  your  brain  is  weary, 
Your  nerves  are  worn,  your  eyes  are  bleary, 
What  with  the  way  you  put  things  over, 
Your  boss  may  sneer  at  a  four-leaf  clover; 
He  likes  your  work;  he  never  pans  you: 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  like  that,  he  cans  you. 
You  howl,  you  come  out  strong  for  shirking — 
And  what  are  you  sore  about?    I'm  still  working. 

SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 


Triolet 

Another  year 

Of  sighs  and  song. 
Will  life  be  dear 
Another  year? 
But  banish  fear! 

To  us  belong 
Another  year 

Of  sighs  and  song. 

J.  0.  L. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  127 


In  zJktemoriam 

Shep,  a  good  dog,  is  dead.   What  then? 
How  many  dogs  have  died,  and  men; 
How  many  worlds,  how  many  suns; 
For  so  the  different  pageant  runs. 
But  I  who  miss  him,  may  not  I 
Remember  him,  and  wonder  why — 
As  men  have  wondered  since  men  were — 
Why  men  and  dogs  of  character, 
Brave,  gentle  men,  brave  dogs  and  kind, 
With  cowards  and  curs  oblivion  find; 
Come  to  one  end  with  knaves,  one  room, 
And  mix  with  muckers  in  the  tomb: 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 
Love  that  was  loyal  one  with  lust: 
Strength  that  was  selfless  one  with  greed; 
The  briar  rose  and  the  stinking  weed  .  .  . 

Bah! — the  old  riddles  rust  my  pen! 

Shep,  a  good  dog,  is  dead.    What  then! 

LEE  WILSON  DODD 


128 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


£ines  On  %eading  2).  Jf.  £aTwence, 
^hef^ood  ^Anderson,  £t  aL 

I 
Friends,  what's  the  matter  with  me? 

II 
I've  been  married  eighteen  years 
And  still  love  my  wife. 
I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  me! 

Ill 

Judging  from  these  books  I'm  told  to  read, 

I  ought  to  be  tired  of  my  wife; 

But  I'm  notl 

I  ought  to  fall  in  love  with  another  woman, 

With  other  women, 

With  lots  of  other  women ; 

But  I  don't! 

Say,  what's  the  matter  with  me? 

IV 

I  want  to  live  a  full,  free,  abundant  life. 
I  want  to  grow,  express  myself,  know  passion  and  de- 
light. 
And  I  thought  I  was  doing  this 
In  marriage  with  a  woman  I  love! 
But  these  books  tell  me  that  marriage  is  servitude, 
That  an  unchanged  wife  is  a  body  of  death, 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  129 

That  I'm  repressed,  extinguished,  cold. 

Strange!  I  never  felt  that  way! 

I  don't  feel  that  way  now. 

I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  me! 


V 

Come,  physicians  of  the  soul, 

Tell  me  my  ill  1 

I've  been  married  eighteen  years 

And  still  adore  my  wife. 

I  have  no  hunger  for  other  women, 

I  am  content  to  be  faithful, 

I  am  resigned  to  decency. 

I  actually  think  I  have  found  love  and  life. 

What's  the  matter  with  me? 

JOHN  HAYNES  HOLMES 


<^4ch>ice  to  Touth 

Since  little  time  is  granted  here 

For  pride  in  pain  or  play; 
Since  blood  soon  cools  before  the  fear 

That  makes  our  prowess  clay; 

If  lips  to  kiss  are  freely  met, 

Lad,  be  not  proud  or  shy; 
There  are  no  lips  where  men  forget, 

And  undesiring  lie. 

COUNTEE  P.  CULLEN 


130  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Qontrarious 

When  I'm  with  tired  business  men 
And  watch  their  dull,  battalioned  brains 
Goose-step  along,  past  lilac  lanes, 
Adown  the  turnpike  that  they  ken : 
Then  see  each  brain  alone  parade 
As  though  it  marched  in  rank  and  file, 
Harking  for  aught  to  be  obeyed 
To  keep  it  uniform  in  style — 

Why,  then  I  feel  like  throwing  rocks, 
And  hurl,  instead,  a  paradox. 

But  when  I'm  with  a  brilliant  group 
Advanced  in  thought  and  lofty-browed, 
Rebels  against  the  creeded  crowd, 
I  find  they,  too,  trip  in  a  troupe. 
And  when  I  see  them  halt,  and  right 
About  from  truth's  reality, 
And  shoot  their  volleys  at  the  trite, 
With  drilled  originality, 

I  sigh,  with  bored  ingratitude, 
For  one  spontaneous  platitude. 

Yes,  I  admit  that  I'm  perverse 
If  nothing  worse. 


R.  P. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  131 


Toems  of  Passion,  Carefully  Restrained  So  as  to 
Offend  Nobody 


You  have  a  most  attractive  pan, 

And  I'm  a  very  foolish  man, 

And,  what  between  the  two,  I  fell 

As  deep  as  Dante  into  hell. 

But  do  you,  in  your  triumph,  think 

I'll  stay  forever  on  the  blink, 

And  pine  and  pale  and  waste  away 

And  grow  cadaverous  and  gray — 

A  wreck,  a  rum,  a  shard?    Well,  maybe 

You  are  right  about  it,  Baby! 

II 
When  you're  away,  I'm  restless,  lonely, 
Wretched,  bored,  dejected;  only 
Here's  the  rub,  my  darling  dear: 
I  feel  the  same  when  you  are  here. 

Ill 
Psychoanalyzed,  I  stand 
And  meditate  your  little  hand — 
Your  lost,  evasive  eyes,  that  seem 
To  lean  upon  me  while  they  scheme. 
And  thus  contemplative,  I  know 
Why  I  adore  and  need  you  so : 


132  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

When  I  was  six  or  seven  or  eight, 

In  that  divine,  pre-nubile  state, 

I  had  a  horror,  vent  in  yelpings, 

Of  what  were  known  as  single  helpings; 

When  I  was  nine,  or  maybe  ten, 

I  nursed  an  unrequited  yen : 

I  loved  her,  middle-aged  and  shrewish, 

But  she  was  Christian,  I  but  Jewish — 

Though  now  I  marvel  at  it  all, 

Who  am  devout  Episcopal. 

When  I  was  in  my  teens,  I  dreamed 

Green  apples  were  not  what  they  seemed, 

But  beasts,  inimical  to  rest, 

Who  sat  upon  a  fellow's  chest; 

When  I  achieved  the  peak  of  twenty, 

Bad  breaks  with  dames  I  had  a-plenty, 

Who  left  my  burning  love  behind, 

And  each,  a  complex  in  my  mind. 

Now,  to  these  inhibitions  true, 

I  am  a-Freud  of  losing  you, 

And,  though  I  fully  understand, 

I  meditate  your  little  hand, 

Your  eyes  that  lie  as  like  as  not, 

And  love  you,  whom  I  ought  to  swat. 

SAMUEL  HOFFENSTE1N 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  133 


The  Qluricaun 

A  fine  one  is  the  Cluricaun; 

He  drinks  a  cellar  dry, 
And  staggers  home  before  the  dawn 

Can  sober  up  the  sky. 

Well,  he  was  on  his  way  to  town 

The  night  I  have  in  mind. 
He  smelled  poteen  across  the  down 

And  felt  exceeding  kind. 

"I  think  I'll  yell  a  song,"  he  thought, 

"So  bravely  do  I  feel." 
And  from  his  throat  a  hymn  he  brought, 

Improved  into  a  reel. 

So  long  he  sang  the  little  folk 

Before  his  music  fled. 
But  all  the  baby  stars  awoke 

And  left  their  milky  bed. 

They  tumbled  off  the  counterpane, 

Unable  to  refuse 
To  drink  a  tune  that  did  contain 

Such  lovely  curlicues. 

Down,  down  they  came  and  romped  along 
The  alley-ways  of  night 


134  THE  CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 

Until  the  singer  of  their  song 
Came  bobbing  into  sight. 

For  as  he  sang  he  tried  to  dance 

Upon  O'Brien's  rath; 
And  failed  to  see  the  starlets  prance 

About  his  crazy  path. 

And  when  at  last  his  hearers  thought 

He'd  worn  his  larynx  through 
Or  burned  his  palate  overhot, 

He  cracked  a  cloud  in  two. 

At  last  a  blush  upon  a  stone 

Before  his  eyes  appeared; 
A  tree  grew  pale  and  he  did  moan : 

"O,  Mary,  I'm  afeared." 

"It  is  me  inemy,  the  morn, 

And  if  me  coat  of  red 
Is  touched  be  him  I'm  all  forlorn. 

In  fact  I'm  worse;  I'm  dead." 

But  'twas  no  dawn-light  in  the  sky 

That  made  the  toper  speed. 
He  could  have  seen  with  half  an  eye 

A  riot  there,  indeed. 

For  all  the  mother  stars  had  learned 

The  children  were  astray 
And  with  parental  passion  burned 

The  night  as  bright  as  day. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  135 

Below  them  leapt  your  screaming  wretch 

From  bog  to  lawn  to  bog, 
A  twisted  course  that,  straight,  would  stretch 

From  here  to  Tir-Nan-Og. 

When,  all  at  once,  he  heard  them  hum 

Their  astral  lullaby, 
He  stopped,  and,  for  the  moment,  dumb, 

Observed  the  singing  sky. 

Then,  bold  once  more,  the  Cluricaun 

Said,  "Damn  ye,  one  and  all. 
Ye  made  me  think  the  sneaking  dawn 

Had  trapped  me  in  the  pall. 

"Ye  scairt  me  well,  but  by  the  fen 

That  shelters  me  by  day 
Ye'll  never  kiss  your  babes  again; 

So  sing  your  hearts  away." 

And  so,  if  there  be  truth  in  rune, 

Fire-flies  the  darkness  through 
Go  dancing  to  a  fairy  tune, 

And  wonder  why  they  do. 

MARC  CONNELLY 


136  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Spit aph  for  a  TSad  Qirl 

Her  heart,  born  eager,  generous  and  just, 

Failed  to  perceive  the  sordidness  of  lust. 

She  thought  it  lovely,  and  she  made  it  so. 

Because  of  this,  about  the  world  there  go 

A  score  of  men  who  writhe  in  generous  shame 

When  their  chaste  wives  pour  vitriol  on  her  name. 

They  turn  to  silence  when  her  name  is  spoken. 
Not  glove  or  garter  is  produced  as  token. 
They  look  with  empty,  hurt,  remembering  eyes 
Upon  a  world  so  good,  so  chaste,  so  wise. 

A.  D. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  137 


Songs  zAbout  £ife  and  brighter  Things  Tet 

I 
Nothing  from  a  straight  line  swerves 
So  sharply  as  a  woman's  curves, 
And,  having  swerved,  no  might  or  main 
Can  ever  put  her  straight  again. 

II 
Men  in  single  state  should  tarry; 
While  women,  I  suggest,  should  marry. 

Ill 
Some  folks  I  know  are  always  worried 
That  when  they  die  they  will  be  buried, 
And  some  I  know  are  quite  elated 
Because  they're  going  to  be  cremated. 

IV 

Oh,  it  is  cruel  and  inhuman 
Not  to  pick  up  a  fallen  woman! — 
A  man  who  would  not  pick  her  up, 
Shall  have  but  water  in  his  cup. 

V 
Where  primal  instincts  do  not  slumber, 
One  sex  the  other  does  outnumber: 
Men,  e.  g.,  are  scarce  in  Paris 
Because  of  which,  on  dit,  the  war  is — 


138  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

And  the  status  that  prevails 
In  London  is  a  dearth  of  males, 
While  twenty  fellows  in  Manhattan 
Jump  for  the  chair  that  Jenny  sat  in. 
'Tis  bad,  I  think,  to  have  too  many 
Women  around  a  man — if  any. 

VI 
A  Queen  as  torrid  as  Sumatra 
Was  the  famous  Cleopatra, 
While  Queen  Elizabeth,  I  gather, 
Contained  herself  in  hottest  weather; — 
Proving  that  even  Queens  can  vary, 
Pourquoi  and  how,  the  same  as  Mary. 
Spell  'em  with  an  a  or  e, 
They're  all  a  mystery  to  me. 

SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  139 


fourth  'Dimension 

Through  some  re-entrant  angle 
Where  spirit  merges  place, 

By  intercosmic  tangle 
Of  time  that  is  but  space, 

She  came,  and  oh,  I  knew  her 
As  if  we  two  were  wed! 

But  though  my  soul  went  to  her, 
My  body  was  as  dead. 

Though  I  at  last  beheld  her, 
No  clearer  did  she  seem 

Than  when  I  oft  had  spelled  her 
In  all  my  years  of  dream. 

I  could  not  call  her  to  me, 
I  could  not  name  her  name; 

But,  as  the  fire  went  through  me, 
I  knew  she  felt  the  flame. 

She  looked  at  me,  and  sent  me 
Her  knowledge  of  our  fate; 

And  that  must  all  content  me — 
She  came  to  me  too  late. 


140  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

So  I  shall  see  her  never; 

The  dream  will  pass  away; 
For  she  was  young  as  ever, 

And  I  am  old  and  gray! 

GELETT  BURGESS 


The  ^Modest  "Bard 

I  don't  attempt  the  stuff  that  makes  'em  cry, 
My  verse  is  seldom  sorrowful  or  sour; 
(You  know  yourself  I  never  heaved  a  sigh 
Into  your  Tower.) 

What  time  a  grave  and  lofty  theme  I  try 
Concerning,  say,  some  matter  astronomic, 
I  do  three  lines,  and  shout,  "I'll  bet  that  I 
Could  make  this  comic!" 

Let  other  bards  contest  the  laureate's  bay, 
Let  others  write  the  things  that  Live  Forever — 
I'm  satisfied  as  long  as  people  say: 
The  kid  is  clever! 

A.  S. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  141 


*A  IZJme  of  a?i  ^Ancient  (gentleman 

Timothy  Dexter  of  Newburyport 

Was  a  droll  old  scout  of  a  good  old  sort. 

He  published  a  book,  did  this  choice  old  spark, 

With  no  trace  of  a  punctuation  mark. 

The  critics  might  rave  or  readers  complain, 

And  declare  the  proceedings  scarcely  sane; 

Yet  never  a  point  did  the  book  contain. 

Some  persons  denounced  him  and  others  jeered, 
But  a  new  edition  ere  long  appeared. 
Points  of  all  sizes  and  all  the  faces 
That  then  could  be  found  in  printers'  cases 
Adorned  an  appendix,  set  closely  spaced; 
And  over  them  all  was  the  legend  placed : 
Just  pepper  the  victuals  to  suit  your  taste. 

Timothy  Dexter  of  Newburyport 

Was  a  gay  old  soul  of  a  rare  old  sort. 

For  West  Indian  trade  he  laid  his  plans, 

So  he  sailed  with  a  cargo  of  warming-pans; 

And  when  he  discovered  for  things  like  these 

No  market  at  all  in  the  Carribbees 

His  comment  was  merely,  "We  aim  to  please." 

He  removed  the  lids  with  a  right  good  will, 

And  the  pans  he  sold  to  a  sugar  mill 

For  molasses  ladles.  "Bring  all  youVe  got!" 


142  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

They  cried,  and  he  went  with  another  lot. 

And  he  sold  the  lids  to  the  native  beaux, 

Who  wore  'em  suspended  from  ear  or  nose 

And  asked,  "Can  you  furnish  some  more  of  those?" 

Timothy  Dexter  of  Newburyport 

Was  a  stanch  old  blade  of  a  fine  old  sort. 

They  begged  him  to  stay.  "My  regrets,"  said  he, 

"But  Newburyport  is  the  place  for  me. 

Though  I  like  it  here,  yet  I  aim  to  tack 

For  my  native  town  on  the  Merrimac. 

You'll  please  excuse  me,  for  I'm  going  back." 

So  he  sailed  back  home,  where  he  lived  in  state, 
With  a  coach  and  a  poet-laureate; 
And  he  set  up  statues  of  men  of  fame, 
With  Timothy  Dexter  among  the  same ; 
And  he  wronged  no  man  nor  was  sued  in  tort, 
This  blithe  old  fellow  of  a  high  old  sort, 
Timothy  Dexter  of  Newburyport. 

G.  S.  B. 


THE   CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  143 


Toet  ^Accepting  a  J^aurel  Wreath 

Good  friend,  if  by  a  curious  chance  you  burn 
With  admiration  for  my  life-long  art, 
Do  not  expect  my  flattered  eyes  to  turn 
Their  beams  on  you,  and  open  up  my  heart. 
Are  you  my  master?   Then  you  can  but  sigh 
At  each  weak  phrasing  of  each  shallow  mood. 
Are  you  my  equal?   Then  your  serious  eye 
Detects  how  much  is  bad,  how  little  good. 
But  if  with  bubbling  praise  you  come  to  me, 
In  the  sealed  letters  which  to  me  you  bear 
Stands  written — "This  man  is  of  low  degree 
And  in  the  servants'  hall  should  take  his  fare, 
Give  him  his  food,  give  him  bed  of  hay, 
But  at  to-morrow's  dawn,  send  him  away! 

ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE 


144  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Susie  to  J£er  £x-  Young  zJkCa/i 

Dear  Frederick: 

Your  letter  was  received. 
(Perhaps  now  I  ought  to  call  you  Mr.  Smith.) 
I  always  knew,  and  never  quite  believed, 
You  had  a  girl  that  you  was  going  with. 

I  guess  you  thought  my  feelings  might  be  hurt. 
How  could  they  when  I  always  understood 
You  wasn't  serious?  You  didn't  flirt 
No  more  than  I  was  willing  that  you  should. 

I'll  say  you  was  a  gentleman  all  right. 

You  only  kissed  me  once  or  twice  in  all, 

And  that  was  when  you're  telling  me  good-night- 

Once  towards  the  last  of  June,  once  in  the  fall. 

Then  when  we  went  to  Coney,  and  the  moon 
Come  up,  and  we  was  sitting  on  the  sand, 
Do  you  remember  how  they  played  that  tune 
In  the  pavilion,  and  you  held  my  hand? 

You  got  the  nicest  eyes,  the  sweetest  laugh — 
I  noticed  them  particular  that  time. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  145 

We  got  a  Frankfurter,  and  each  et  half ; 
A  gypsy  told  our  fortunes  all  in  rhyme. 

My  future  would  be  dark  with  curly  hair. 
Your  girl  was  going  to  be  a  blond,  she  said. 
You  pinched  my  arm  and  claimed  you  didn't  care 
What  color  her  hair  was,  if  it  was  red. 

I  guess  your  girl  is  light.    One  day  last  week 
I  saw  you  with  a  lady  dressed  in  green. 
I  started  after  you  and  meant  to  speak 
But  didn't  think  I  should  of  when  I  seen 

How  you  was  taken  up  with  her.    I  knew 
'Twas  someone  you  was  pretty  glad  to  see. 
It  might  have  been  your  sister — that  one  you 
Have  always  said  you  wanted  to  meet  me. 

Fred,  I  felt  terrible,  and  you  know  why? 
I  was  afraid  you  saw  me,  and  you'd  think 
That  I  was  snooping  round  you  on  the  sly — 
I  felt  so  bad  I  couldn't  sleep  a  wink. 

I  wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings  ever,  dear. 
You  are  the  one  I  call  my  closest  friend, 
And  no  one  else  has  seemed  to  come  so  near. 
Well,  all  good  things,  they  say,  must  have  an  end. 

I've  rambled  on.    I'm  feeling  sort  of  blue. 
My  mother  has  been  sick.    My  brother  Bob 
Is  making  lots  of  trouble.    Guess  you  knew 
A  week  ago  they  laid  me  off  my  job. 


146 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Well,  life  is  funny,  ain't  it?    There  is  some 
Gets  what  they  wants,  and  some  that  never  do. 
Drop  in  to  see  me.     .     .     .  No,  Fred,  don't  you  come. 
This  is  goodby.    Your  pal  and  comrade, 

Sue.        \ 


ETHEL  M.  KELLEY 


Sxplicit:  To  Jfelen 


When  I  call  you  lovely,  sweet, 

Others  boast  about  your  beauty, 
Flinging  phrases  at  your  feet 

In  performance  of  a  duty. 
Beauty  is  too  perfect,  quite, 
To  be  meant  for  mortal  sight. 

Beauty  has  no  soft  caress; 

Beauty  lies  too  far  to  capture. 
Hearts  that  look  on  loveliness 

Know  of  joy,  and  bliss,  and  rapture. 
Lovely  things  are  things  to  touch; 
Beauty's  but  a  poet's  crutch. 

GEORGE  JESTER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  147 


When  West  fames  Cast 

I  hail  from  high  in  the  alkali 

Where  the  desert  bones  lie  rotten; 
Where  men  set  their  faces  to  the  open  spaces, 

Forgetting  and  being  forgotten. 
I  was  at  my  best,  as  I  say,  out  West 

And  my  coming  East  was  rash, 
For  my  strength  is  vain  in  a  railway  train  — 

I  never  can  raise  the  sash. 

I  can  tell — who  knows — of  a  desert  rose 

That  bloomed  where  the  coyote  starts; 
Where  the  only  sound  for  miles  around 

Was  the  clash  of  primitive  hearts. 
I  can  tell,  of  course,  how  my  faithful  horse 

Was  my  truest  of  pals — all  that, 
But  I  never  can  tell,  in  a  large  hotel, 

Just  when  to  remove  my  hat. 

Oh,  ship  me  West  in  a  leather  vest 

With  chaps  on  my  corduroy  pants; 
Back  to  the  rows  of  baked  plateaus 

Where  the  strongheart  has  a  chance! 
Clean-limbed,  clear-eyed,  I'd  be  satisfied 

With  the  life  I  led  before, — 
For  I  can  never  collect  my  self-respect 

When  I  use  a  revolving  door. 

COREY  FORD 


148  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


The  £overs 

They  love  to  write,  they  love  to  read 
(Provided  they've  a  Journal  handy)  ; 

They  love,  though  it  protest,  to  feed 

The  cat  with  home-made  cakes  and  candy. 

They  love  to  eat,  they  love  to  drink — 
(I'm  not  averse  myself  to  drinking)  ; 

They  love  (this  is  a  fact)  to  think 

That  they  are  really  fond  of  thinking. 

They  love  the  thousand  things  above 

Their  heads,  like  stars  and  Schopenhauer; 

They  love  to  laugh,  they  love  to  love, 

They  love  to  think  they  love  The  Tower. 

They  love  (or  thick  or  thin)  to  run 
The  gamut  of  their  Dozen  Daily; 

They  love,  because  it's  Just  Clean  Fun, 
To  strum  the  soulful  ukulele. 

They  love  (and  it  is  quite  the  thing) 
To  sport,  at  tennis,  bright  bandannas, 

They  love  to  dance,  they  love  to  sing 
Sad  strains  of  mammies  and  bananas. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  149 

They  love  to  camp,  they  love  to  hike, 

They  love  to  motor,  golf  and  row;  .  .  . 
Can  someone  tell  me  what  they  like?" 


I'd  love  to  know. 


A.  S. 


Cjratitude 

I  pass  through 

City  Hall  Park 

And  Union  Square  Park 

And  Madison  Square  Park  .  .  . 

In  fact,  any  park 

That  has  benches, 

And  I  see  bewhiskered, 

Cowed  and  beaten  forms 

Of  what  surely  must  have  been 

Men. 

And  I  whisper  to  God: 

"I  guess  you  never  gave  them 

A  sweetheart 

Like  mine." 

ARTURO 


150  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


ZHe  Is  U^oi  ^Desecrate 

Lift  up  the  shuttered  eyelids  that  were  drawn 

On  splendid  pageantries  once  pictured  there: — 
We  are  too  tardy,  they  are  centuries  gone; 

There  is  no  road  to  countries  that  they  fare. 
And  heed  the  pulse  if  it  be  swift  to  change, 

And  listen  at  the  lips  if  still  they  keep 
Some  words  that  once  were  passionate  and  strange 

For  one  who  heard.  .  .and  smiled.  .  .and  fell  asleep. 

He  is  not  desecrate;  his  life  were  all 
Inviolate  still  within  his  own  brief  day: 

Some  joy  of  swords  or  April  at  his  wall, 
Music.  .  .and  heartbreak.  .  .and  a  name  to  say 

Of  one  who  somehow  touched  his  youth  with  dream, 
And  passed,  another  leaf  upon  the  stream. 

DAVID  MORTON 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  151 


The  Qradle 

My  Grandfather  was  born  in  Scituate 

On  what  they  call  now  the  Riverdale  Farm. 

(The  Turners  bought  it  from  William  Brooks  in  1837) . 

It's  about  two  miles  from    the   original    Old    Oaken 

Bucket, 
And  before  my  Mother  died 
We  drove  over  there  in  a  carry-all 
And  she  showed  us  the  bank 

Where  her  Father,  when  a  boy,  used  to  "eat  sand". 
Up  in  the  great  garret  were  many  old  cradles:  of 
The  Turners,  the  Wiswells,  the  Seaburys  and  all — 
And  there  we  found  Grandpa's  cradle, 
Big  and  dark  red,  of  painted  maple, 
With  long,  thin,  sharp  rockers. 
I  bought  it  for  $3.50. 

I  was  proud  to  have  that  heirloom,  I  can  tell  you! 
We  loaded  it  into  the  carry-all, 
And  the  rockers  stuck  out  over  the  dash. 
On  our  summer  verandah  it  kicked   everybody  who 

came  near. 
I  made  a  big  crate  for  it  and  we  shipped  it  to  Boston. 
For  many  years  I  had  it  in  my  room. 
Every  day  I  barked  my  shins  against  those  rockers. 
It  seemed  as  big  as  a  house. 
So,  when  we  moved,  I  just  left  it  there  all  alone  .  .  . 


152  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

For  over  forty  years  Nathan  Brooks  was  Town  Clerk 

of  Kingston, 
A  sweet  old  man,  beloved  by  everybody. 
He  never  smoked,  never  chewed,  never  swore,  never 

drank, 
And  never  took  a  bath. 
I  guess  that's  as  good  an  heirloom  to  have 
As  a  wild,  bucking  cradle. 

GELETT  BURGESS 


Some  day  you  will  come  to  me 
Wholly  glad  and  wholly  free, 

Singing  like  the  little  birds 
Sounds  too  happy  for  mere  words, 

Singing  through  the  April  air, 
Heart  unloosened  like  your  hair, 

Blue  eyes  morning-clear,  and  face 
Sunlit,  lifting  its  embrace. 

Some  day  this  will  happen,  or 
What  do  men  make  heaven  for? 


ROBERT  L.  WOLFE 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


153 


Songs  of  Juiirly  Utter  "Despair 

I 
Now,  alas,  it  is  too  late 
To  buy  Manhattan  real  estate, 
But  when  my  father  came  to  town 
He  could  have  bought  for  fifty  down, 
And  I  should  not  be  where  I  am ; 
Yet  does  my  father  give-a-damn, 
Or  ever  say,  "I'm  sorry,  boy," 
Or  looking  at  me,  murmur,  "Oy!"? 
He  does  not  grieve  for  what  I've  missed. 
And  yet  I'm  called  an  Anarchist! 

II 
I'm  tired  of  work,  I'm  tired  of  play, 
I'm  lone  by  night  and  bored  by  day; 
A  bachelor's  life  oppresses  me 
And  married  life  distresses  me; — 
Tell  me  truly,  if  you  can, 
Is  this  a  way  to  treat  a  man? 

Ill 
I  want  to  take  a  ship  and  go 
Abroad,  but  where  I  do  not  know: 
It  isn't  Paris,  London,  Rome, 
Nor  Nagasaki,  Naples,  Nome, 


154  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Nor  Honolulu,  Teheran, 
Nor  Servia,  nor  Afghanistan, 
And  yet  I  want  to  take  a  ship 
And  give  the  place  I'm  in  the  slip — 
Lord,  tell  me  where  I  want  to  go ; 
Oh,  give  a  man  a  decent  show! 

IV 
My  heart  is  broken,  my  life  is  ended, 
I  can't  decide  if  I  want  it  mended; 
I  know  I  can't  go  on  this  way, 
I'll  have  to  make  a  choice  some  day, 
Be  either  desperate  or  resigned — 
Oh,  help  me  to  make  up  my  mind! 

V 

This  black  predicament  I  sing: 
I  do  not  want  a  single  thing, 
And  yet,  not  having  kills  me,  too — 
Oh,  what  the  devil  shall  I  do? 

SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  155 


To  *A.  ®.  C 

To  you  who  fill  my  heart  with  rhyme 

I  give  my  poems  all  the  time. 

For  you  who  are  my  heart's  delight 

I  scribble  far  into  the  night, 

Until  the  dawn  walks  through  the  wood. 

And  with  her  coming,  if  I  could, 

I'd  send  her  softly  to  your  bed 

To  drop  a  poem  on  your  head. 

Bright  it  would  lie  against  your  hair, 

And  if  you  felt  it,  tender,  there — 

About  as  sweet  a  song  for  you 

As  anybody  ever  knew. 

And  even  if  you  sensed  it  were 

A  thing  of  flame  and  love,  you'd  stir 

And  no  more  heed  of  it  you'd  take 

Than  you  do  when  you  are  awake. 


ELEANOR  CHASE 


156  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


'Daphne  and  ^Apollo 

Ovid's  Metamorphoses:   Book  I,   Fable   12 

You  who  know  unrequited  love,  who  know  the  tear 
of  blighted  love, 
Who'd  leap  into  the  lake  at  once — if  it  were  not  so 
cold — 
For  you  a  tale  P.  Naso  tells;  this  knowing  guy — you'll 
say  so! — tells 
Of  Daphne  and  Apollo,  and  of  love  that  blooms  too 
bold. 

This  Daphne  was  a  wholesome  wench :  her  skin  showed 
not  a  mole ;  some  wench, 
To  walk  out  with  no  clothes  on   and   preserve   un^ 
blemished  flesh! 
She  knew  not  what  a  leach  is,  and  her  face  was  cream 
and  peaches,  and 
The  net  result  was  that  she  found  the  men  got  pretty 
fresh. 

But  it  was  not  the  custom  then  when  they  got  gay  to 
bust  'em;  then 
She  had  to  ask  her  dad,  Peneus,  please  to  acquiesce 
In    guarding    her    virginity!    Her    papa    thought   a 
minute — he 
Was  struck  with  much  astonishment — but  finally  said 
Yes. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  157 

Yet  grief  was  soon  to  follow:  came  a  day  when  Don 
Apollo  came 
Along  the  road,  and  saw  her,  sprawled  beneath  a 
sprawling  oak. 
Cried  he,  "My  heart's  aglow!    Miss,  I'll  escort  you  to 
my  ^/omicyle 
To  live  and  love!"  And  he  was  shocked  when  Daphne 
up  and  spoke: 

"Sir,  there's  a  hitch,  and  this  is  it:  I  do  not  like  your 
kisses;  it 
Annoys  me  most  extremely  to  be  folded  in  your  arms ! 
Your  hug  is  too  Gargantuan!  Quite  willingly  I'll  grant 
you  an 
Extended  leave  of  absence  from  what  people  call  my 
charms." 

(She  meant  for  him  to  go  away.)     He  simply  said  to 
stow  away 
That  line  of  talk.    Does  she  not  know  Apollo  is  the 
Sun? 
He'll  go  when  he  has  made  her  his.  .  .No  dad,  no  man 
could  aid  her.    His 
Breath  grew  so  hot  upon  her,  Daphne  started  in  to 
run. 

[A  moment  draw  the  curtain  here;  permit  me  to  insert 
in  here 
A  word  or  two  upon  the  theme  I  said  that  I  should 
sing: 
If  you  would  love  and  win  your  love,  respect  this  token 
in  your  love: 
When  woman  says  she  will  not  love,  she  will  not  love 
a  King!] 


158  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Though  women  waited  woe-begone,  and  said  to  suitors, 
"No;  be  gone! 
We  love  Apollo  only,  though  Apollo  is  not  true," 
The  object  of  their  high  regard  that  moment  sought  to 
buy  regard 
Perversely  from  the  only  girl  who  scorned  to  let  him 
woo. 

Too  tragic  life,  to  make  men's  wants  be  that  which  will 
not  slake  men's  wants, 
To  pine  for  that  one  passion  which  forever  must  be 
pent! 
Not  that  Apollo  thought  of  this!  He  meditated  naught 
of  this; 
He  chased  the  fleeting  Daphne,  like  a  hound  upon 
the  scent. 

The  maid,  by  great  endeavor,    ran  as  fast  as  Wefers 
ever  ran, 
But  Paddock's,  which  is  swifter,    was    the    speed 
Apollo  stole, 
So  that — does  it  deject  you  all? — her  flight  was  in- 
effectual : 
Again  his  breath  was  hot  upon  the  skin-without-a- 
mole. 

Her  feet  began  to  flag;  a  knee  gave  way;  she  sank  in 
agony 
By  Pa  Peneus's  river,  near  a  clump  of  laurel  trees. 
Those  days  it  was  no  sin  to  pray,  and  so  she  started  in 
to  pray 
That,  to  avoid  Apollo's  arms,  she  might  be  one  of 
these. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  159 

Ah,  was  it  not  deplorable,  to  take  such  soft,  adorable 
(And  mole-less)  flesh,  and  change  it  into  hard,  un- 
feeling bark! 
He  lusted  after  symmetry:  the  river  offered  him  a  tree 
But,  when  he  sought  to  hold  a  maid,  he  held  part  of 
a  parkl 

Yet  this  much  must  be  said  for  him:  though  Daphne 
now  was  dead  for  him, 
He  showed  his  poker  training,  and  he  lost  her  with 
a  grin. 
Said  he,  "She'd  years  to  live;  that  gal  had  pluck!    So 
I'll  forgive  that  gal 
And,  since  she  is  a  laurel,  I'll  make  that  the  prize  to 
winl 

"Though  rules  of  rhyme  be  stricter,  he  shall  own  a 
greater  victory 
Who  will  but  come  to  know  that  chasing  ladies  is 
a  curse; 
I'll  crown  him  with  the  laurel-bough  who,  being  called 
a  bore,  '11  bow 
And,  rather  than  pursue  the  frail,  will  vent  his  spleen 

in  verse  I" 

****** 

You  who  know  unrequited  love,  who  know  the  tear  of 
blighted  love, 
Who  leave  your  plate  untouched,  oh,  take  this  tip 
from  Ovid's  time: 
The  more  he  pined,  the  more  he  ate;  and  he  was  poet- 
laureate! 
There  is  no  prize  for  loving,  but  there's  laurel  in  a 
rhyme! 

GEORGE  JESTER 


160  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


'Resolution 


I  was  in  the  Harbor 

Snug  as  I  could  be — 
Pierrot  whistled  down  the  wind 

"Oh,  come  out  to  Seal" 

I  was  bruised  and  weary 
With  sailing  on  the  Sea: 

The  Harbor  held  me  in  its  arms 
And  safely  cradled  me. 

I  knew  all  about  the  Sea 
And  what  a  Harbor  meant; 

Pierrot  whistled  down  the  wind- 
And  of  course  I  went! 


WIOLAR 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  161 


^Doomsday  <J&orning 

Deaf  to  God,  who  calls  and  walks 

Until  the  earth  aches  with  his  tread 

Summoning  the  sulky  dead, 

We'll  wedge  and  stiffen  under  rocks, 

Or  be  mistaken  for  a  stone, 

And  signal  as  children  do,  "Lie  low" — 

Wait  and  wait  for  God  to  go. 

The  risen  will  think  we  slumber  on 

Like  silug-a-beds.     When  they  have  gone 

Trooped  up  before  the  Judgment  throne, 

We,  in  the  vacant  earth  alone, 

Abandoned  by  ambitious  souls, 

And  deaf  to  God,  who  calls  and  walks 

Like  an  engine  overhead 

Driving  the  dishevelled  dead — 

We  will  rise  and  crack  the  ground, 

Tear  the  roots  and  heave  the  rocks, 

And  billow  the  surface  where  God  walks: 

And  God  will  listen  to  the  sound 

And  know  that  lovers  are  below 

Working  havoc,  till  they  creep 

Together  from  their  sundered  sleep. 

Then  end  world!    Let  your  final  darkness  fall! 
And  God  may  call.  .  .and  call.  .  .and  call. 

GENEVIEVE  TAGGARD 


162  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


J<reud  in  ^Qw  England 

Melvine  Berle 

Was  a  young  pale  girl, 

A  wan  and  dreamy  thing. 

They  said,  "Is  he  wild 

That  he  weds  that  child?" 

When  she  married  Hiram  King. 

But  she  learned  to  bake 
And  to  mend  and  to  make 
The  best  of  a  farming  life, 
So  Hiram  would  grin 
And  thrust  out  his  chin 
To  boast  of  his  capable  wife. 

But  dreams  die  hard, 

And  when  nights  are  starred 

And  a  wind  blows  up  from  the  main, 

Aldebaran  shines 

Through  three  tall  pines 

And  slants  through  her  window-pane! 

Oh  Hiram,  stir  I 

Look  over  at  her! 

She  is  false  to  you,  good  farmer! 

She  is  climbing  the  bars 

Of  a  ladder  of  stars 

And  kissing  a  knight  in  armor! 

ANCHUSA 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  163 


^Heroic  ballad  igjd 

As  told  to  Will  Irwin  by  Flight-Lieut.  Ehrlich 
Faraday  Miller,  Aerial  Corps. 

All  hail  the  sturdy  vats  and  tanks 

That  brewed  the  gas  of  victory, 
And  hail,  all  hail  thy  patriot  ranks — 

Industrial  Chemistry! 

And  hail  Field  Marshal  Poggleburg, 

That  miracle  of  chemic  lore, 
Who  gave  our  land  its  bulwark  firm — 

Z7  C04! 

The  toxin  tapped  at  8.15; 

At  9  we  slipped  our  morning-mast, 
And  ere  11.55 

Our  far  frontier  was  passed. 

My  vision  plumbed  the  midnight  deeps, 
And  saw  our  mobile  retorts  blow 

A  line  of  light  from  sky  to  sky 
Eight  thousand  yards  below. 

Ah,  swift  our  strutted  vulture  winged 
Its  plotted  course;  but  swifter  still 

The  lethal  gas  that  laughs  at  masks 
Swept  over  vale  and  hill. 


164  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Ye  footmen  of  our  Chemic  Corps, 

How  well  ye  plied  your  task  that  night! 

Three  thousand  thousand  hostile  eyes 
Saw  not  the  morrow's  light. 

But  nobler  patriot  aim  was  ours 
That  down  the  midnight  air-lane  flew — 

Ye  hawks  of  vengeance,  steel  your  souls! 
Your  reckoning  be  true! 

We  sought  his  city's  wide  expanse 

Whence  all  his  railroad  lines  were  laid. 

And  where  ten  million  perjured  hands 
Maintained  his  export  trade. 

My  dial  swung  to  eight-point-four ; 

I  saw  the  speaking-signal  glow, 
Our  Chieftain's  accents  rang  along 

The  tuned  radio. 

"Men,  yonder  sleeps  the  indivious  brood 
Whose  greed  has  raised  our  ocean  freights 

And  put  upon  our  pork  and  prunes 
Discriminating  rates. 

"Wise  bombsmen,  draw  your  cosins  true! 

Wild  wingmen,  speed  as  ne'er  before 
Your  answer  to  their  bootless  taunts — 

Z7  C04!" 

With  his  eternal  aniline 

The  Almighty  Chemist  hewed  the  East; 
Our  gas-bombs  clattered  in  their  racks 

As  eager  for  the  feast. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  165 

And  lo,  the  imperial  city  stretched 

Its  checkered  roofs  across  the  plain — 
I  threw  my  firing-lever  home 

And  loosed  our  chemic  rain. 

A  moment  all  my  senses  reeled, 

A  moment  scarce  I  dared  to  hope; 
Then  cleared  mine  anxious  eyes!    I  seized 

My  teleperiscope. 

I  locussed  on  a  city  street 

A  film  of  mist  and  naught  beside — 
Till  from  the  doors  contorted  throngs 

Burst  quivering — and  died. 

O'er  dome  and  stack  my  lens  I  swept, 

O'er  park  and  stately  avenue — 
Ah,  stout  Z7  CO4, 

How  swift  thy  stroke,  how  true! 

And  did  I  pity,  comrades?    Ay, 

As  he  who  slaughters  for  our  feast 
May  drop  one  unrestraining  tear 

Above  the  shambled  beast. 

These  were  not  Nordics;  let  them  die! 

A  lesser  folk,  decadent,  frail; 
Scarce  reached  they  six-point-forty  on 

The  anthropometric  scale! 

From  roofs  and  spires  the  untended  fires 

Smoked  sullen  to  our  rudder-gears; 
The  squadrons  wheeled;  the  wave-lengths  reeled 

With  gay,  exultant  cheers. 


166  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Home,  heroes,  to  your  ransomed  land; 

See  yonder  how  her  steel-works  gleam! 
Ho,  Eagles!    From  her  pylons  tall 

Victorious  banners  stream! 

Enraptured  kisses  wait  your  lips 

And  bosoms  warm  invite  your  rest 
Of  Nordic  maids  with  Class  A  minds 

Upon  the  Benet  test. 

Her  palaces  will  ring  to-night 

With  fires  of  joy  her  cities  shine, 
While  heroes  all  in  hut  or  hall 

Quaff  the  synthetic  wine. 

And  ere  the  fiscal  year  was  done 

Our  trade  had  won  its  guerdon  due, 
Our  balance  rose  from  three  per  cent. 

To  nine-point-forty-two. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  167 


Vigil 

Somehow  that  night  I  knew  you'd  come. 

I  lighted  on  the  window  sill 

A  candle  showing  I  was  home, 

And  there  I  sat  to  wait  until 

I'd  hear  a  footstep  on  the  stair 

And  open  the  door  and  find  you  there. 

Sad  she  will  be,  I  thought;  entreat 
Forgivenessi,  and  can  I  forget 
So  soon  she  left  me?   How  but  greet 
Her  frowning  and  forgive  not  yet! 
Glittering  on  the  huddled  town 
I  watched  Orion  sidle  down. 

Ah  no,  I  thought,  I'll  not  reprove, 
But  take  her  in  my  arms,  and  speak 
Compassionate  of  spring  and  love, 
And  put  my  cheek  against  her  cheek: 
Surely  her  hurt  was  more  at  last 
Than  my  hurt  ever!   Midnight  passed. 

Yet,  knowing  you  would  come  at  clear 
Of  dawn,  my  dear,  I  could  not  sleep : 
And  O,  I  thought,  when  she  is  here 
What  can  I  do  but  weep,  but  weep! 
So  morning  came         .  upon  the  sill 
The  cold  wax  makes  a  puddle  still. 


168  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Songs  to  'Break  the  Tedium  of  Touting  a  Bicycle, 
feeing  One's  Cjfriends,  or  J£eartbreak 

I 
Along  the  country  roads  there  grow 
Willow-trees  and  Texaco, 
Mobiloils  and  marigold 
And  other  fruits  of  men  and  mould. 
Oh,  how  my  town-tried  heart  desires 
To  know  the  peace  of  Kelly  tires; 
To  hear  the  robin  in  the  grass 
Sing  out  "Socony",  as  I  pass! 
Oh,  some  day  I  shall  fly  the  rut 
And  build  a  small,  bucolic  hut; 
Trim  a  hedge  and  hop  a  stile; 
Walk  my  Camel  for  a  mile; 
Milk  a  mid-Victorian  cow — 
Eventually,  but  not  now. 

II 
My  luck  with  the  proverbial  sex 
Should  rile,  torment  me  and  perplex; 
Should  turn  my  simple  psyche  sour 
As,  par  example,  Schopenhauer. 
It  should  imbue  me  with  disgust 
Of  woman's  misproportioned  dust; 
Should  make  me  look,  with  dubious  eye, 
On  every  female  passer-by; 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  169 

Suspect  the  sting,  mistrust  the  buzz — 
Well,  well,  my  lad,  it  does,  it  does! 

Ill 
When  trouble  drives  me  into  rhyme, 
Which  is  two-thirds  of  all  the  time — 
What  peace  a  thought  like  this  can  give — 
Great  is  the  age  in  which  we  live! 
My  heart  is  heavy,  but  I  know 
They're  working  on  the  radio; 
That  letters,  by  aerial  post, 
Go  every  day  from  coast  to  coast. 
I  may  be  sunk  beyond  repair, 
Drunk  less  on  liquor  than  despair, 
And  yet  my  heart  leaps  up  when  I 
Behold  Sweet  Caporal  in  the  sky. 
Though  winter-bare  my  solitude, 
Though  heartbreak  in  its  branches  brood, 
I  know  that  future  wars  will  be 
Fought  out  by  super-chemistry, 
And,  therefore,  loneliness  and  loss 
Are  but  a  mask  for  apple-sauce; 
For  I  am  lord  of  life  and  death, 
Who  flaunt  this  modern  shibboleth: 
No  matter  what  the  morrow  brings, 
Inventors  are  inventing  things! 

IV 
I  do  not  question  Woman's  place: 
She's  entered  in  the  human  race; 
She  has  a  natural  turn  of  mind 
For  propagation  of  her  kind; 
She  is — that  is  to  say,  a  few  — 


170  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

A  little  decorative  too, 

And  on  her  once  maternal  breast — 

The  vogue  is  past — men  used  to  rest. 

If,  in  this  golden  age  of  dames, 

She  stalks  a  few  surprising  claims, 

Attemps  to  puzzle  and  perplex 

Old  Nature  with  a  change  of  sex, 

And  tumbles  from  her  ancient  shelf 

In  trying  to  express  herself — 

I  say  it  is  O.  K.  with  me, 

If  she  but  does  it  F.  O.  B. 

There  may  be  some,  whose  ways  are  meek, 

Who  dream  submission  to  a  sheik, 

Who'd  like  to  waste  their  love  and  care 

An  1  sweetness  on  a  desert  heir; 

Wl  o  are  not  fretting  to  be  free 

Of  orthodox  biology — 

If    uch  there  be,  go  mark  one  well, 

At.  1  hold  her  in  some  citadel! 

Bu .  Woman,  as  they  say  in  Greece, 

Is  >n  the  hoof  for  Bigger  Fleece: 

Too  long  a  serf,  too  long  oppressed 

By  butterV  egg  men  from  the  West, 

B'  whiskered  juries,  blunt  of  wit, 

Who  take  two  hours  to  acquit. 

I  hope  she  finds  her  proper  niche, 

Her  why  and  wherefore,  what  and  which, 

For,  through  the  town  I  sadly  roam, 

And  note,  her  place  is  not  the  home. 

SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  171 


£.egend 

Stories  told  of  Ithaca 

And  stories  told  of  Troy, 

Stories  told  of  sad  folk 
And  stories  told  of  joy; 

All  these  stories  do  I  know, 
But  one  know  nothing  of — 

And  that's  the  story  once  I  told 
To  my  first  love.    .    .    . 

Ah,  what  a  well  of  faith  was  there 

And  what  a  way  I  had, 
And  how  I'd  like  to  talk  to  him, 

That  wild  young  lad. 

How  I'd  like  to  hear  his  lies, 
And  watch  his  face  and  see 

The  trouble  as  he  tried  and  tried 
Never  to  be  me. 


ADUL  TIMA 


172  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


^Variation  on  an  Old  Theme 

It  is  said  that  Miguel  de  Cervantes 
In  his  cell  above  the  prison  garden 
Writing  at  his  book  about  Quixote, 
Scrivening  endless, 

Looked  him  down  and  loved  the  keeper's  maiden 
As  she  went  her  way  about  the  prison 
Dressed  forever  in  her  white  and  crimson, 
Running  in  laughter; 

Looked  and  loved  and  sighed,  and  then  remembered 
That  he  was  not  young,  took  up  his  ink-horn, 
Moved  his  quill,  and  drove  the  Don  before  him 
Through  a  whole  morning. 

It  is  said  that  Sappho  had  her  Phaon, 
Loved  and  lost,  and  that  dark  Homer  carried 
One  young  curl  of  hair  from  that  last  autumn 
Before  his  blindness. 

That  in  his  garden,  walking  with  the  roses, 
Dante,  the  old  man,  had  his  young  love  with  him, 
Though  she  was  dead  and  what  it  was  her  name  was 
He  had  forgotten. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  173 

It  is  said  the  nightingale  sings  only 
Breast  to  thorn,  and  do  you  ask,  girl  lover, 
Breast  to  my  breast,  why  I  in  this  new  springtime 
Sing  now  no  longer? 

M.  A. 


Dilemma 

All  night  I  sit  and  ponder, 
I  know  not  what  to  do, 

For  I  must  choose  between  them- 
The  old  love.  .  .or  the  new? 

My  new  love  is  so  handsome — 
My  old  love  was  so  kind — 

How  can  I  take  the  new  one 
And  leave  the  old  behind? 

My  new  love  is  so  merry 
To  lose  him  I  am  loath.  .  . 

All  night  I  sit  and  ponder 
How  I  may  keep  them  both. 


VIOLA   BROTHERS   SHORE 


174  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Oh  Take  This  £ittle  £ong 

Oh,  lake  this  little  song,  my  love, 

You  may  not  know 
A  thousand  kisses  never  given 

Have  made  it  glow. 

Oh,  take  this  little  rhyme,  my  dear, 

And  if  you  listen, 
You'll  hear  the  dropping  of  the  tears 

That  made  it  glisten. 

Oh,  take  this  little  word,  my  sweet, 

A  simple  thing — 
But  anguish  of  a  thousand  nights 

Has  made  it  ring. 

Oh,  you  can  never  know,  my  love, 

How  life  is  long; 
But  since  you  will  not  have  me,  love, 

Oh,  have  my  song. 

MARTHA 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  175 


zAdvice  to  a  Young  Prophet 

Treacherous  the  road  you  tread 
With  sharp  flint  and  sucking  ooze; 

Soon  enough  will  it  be  red. 

Go  not  barefoot — take  stout  shoes. 

Bear  no  dreams  upon  your  back — 
Hard  they  weigh  when  dried  to  dust. 

Make  your  kit  a  soldier's  pack — 
Put  in  bitter  herbs  your  trust. 

Seek  no  sign  your  soul  above, 
Ask  not  heaven's  help  at  need. 

Lean  upon  your  staff  of  love 
Knowing  it  will  prove  a  reed. 

Careful  lest  your  heart  be  fed 

To  the  hunger  of  the  sty! 
Hammer  it  a  shield  of  lead 

Hollow  as  the  brazen  sky. 

Wear  the  shackles  of  your  cause 
Lightly,  nor  expect  the  least 

Bending  of  the  iron  laws 
Binding  man  unto  the  beast. 


176  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

When  the  gibbet  or  the  stake 
Rears  against  the  morning  gray, 

Shall  your  mortal  anguish  make 
Sniggering  fools  a  holiday. 

When  the  dry  wind  of  the  south 

Bee-like  sips  the  blood — sweet  dawn, 

Make  no  mealy  martyr  mouth — 
Shrug,  and  die  like  Phocion. 

Well,  my  lad,  if  you  must  go : 
Leap  to  lead  your  hope  forlorn, 

Drain  your  brother's  cup  of  woe 
Half  in  pity,  half  in  scorn. 

J.  M.  S. 


The  Irreversible  zJfCetaphor 
(To  Jean) 

Is  it  the  beauty  of  the  rose, 

Unfolding  to  my  view, 
That  stirs  again  this  heart  of  mine 

To  gentle  thoughts  of  you? 

Or  is  it  that  the  thought  of  you, 
Which  sweetly  in  me  glows, 

Can  make  me  see  each  time  anew 
The  beauty  of  the  rose? 


TROUBADOUR 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  177 


"Battery  "Park 

I 
Behind  me  lie  the  clumping  streets, 

Before,  the  brawling  harbor  lies; 
But  what  of  towns  and  what  of  fleets 

With  such  a  sun  and  such  blue  skies? 
Oh,  I  could  sit  the  whole  day  through, 
My  dear,  my  dear,  and  think  of  you! 

Drowsy  I  watch  with  half  an  eye 
The  pigeons  flutter,  marveling 

By  two  and  two  how  close  they  fly, 
So  very  close  there,  wing  to  wing. 

Oh,  I  could  sit  the  whole  day  long 

And  never  hear  a  sound  but  song! 

Oh,  I  could  sit  all  day  and  hold 

Your  hand  and  feel  your  shoulder  press 
On  mine,  and  feel  the  sun  enfold 

Both  in  one  flame  of  tenderness! 
And  since  you  do  not  love  me,  dear, 
I  am  quite  glad  you  are  not  here. 

II 
Misty  with  sun  and  stately  sort 

I  watch  the  great  ships  riding  by, 
Outbound  at  flood-tide,  out  of  port, 


178  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

And  gulls  fly  after  with  a  cry. 
And  here  am  I  and  now  I'm  free, 
And  why  not  go  myself  to  sea? 

Oh,  many  a  time  I  could  not  bear, 
Many  a  time  when  you  loved  me, 

To  watch  the  ships  when  they  would  fare 
Forth  from  the  harbor,  forth  to  sea! 

And  many  a  time  my  heart  has  cried 

After  a  sail  at  flood  of  tide. 

But  now  I  watch  with  listless  gaze 
The  stately  vessels  veering  slow 

Down  to  the  sea-rim  brown  with  haze. 
Nor  even  wonder  where  they  go. 

Ah,  here  am  I  and  now  I'm  free 

And  have  no  heart  to  go  to  sea! 


ZHappy  Thought 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  people, 
I  wish  I  could  live  on  the  top  of  a  steeple. 


GERTRUDE  PAHLOW 


THE  CONNING  TOWER   BOOK  179 


^Beatrice  T>ead 

When  the  news  came  that  Beatrice  was  dead 
He  fee'd  the  messenger  without  a  word. 
They  wondered  what  the  book  was  that  he  read, 
Whispering,  perhaps  the  old  man  had  not  heard. 
Within  the  garden  when  the  moon  has  set 
He  walks,  and  breathes  the  soft  scent  of  her  rose, 
Feels  of  his  cheek  and  finds  his  eyes  are  wet 
And  still  goes'  back  and  forth  across  the  close. 

Long  briers  rise  above  the  wall  into 
The  shadowy  starlight;  a  dark  window  flares 
Quick-luminous;  the  hedge  is  touched  with  dew; 
Each  roof-top  a  familiar  contour  wears  .... 
"What  was  it  that  within  the  house  they  said?" 
He  asked  at  last.  "Said  they  some  one  was  dead?" 


M.  A. 


180  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


%lan  £ong 

With  Piccolo  Accompaniment 

Boldly  we  go  to  the  battle,  the  Knights  of  the  Ku  Klux 

Klan, 
But  never  a  sabre  we  rattle — it  isn't  a  part  of  our  plan ; 
The  noise  might  awaken  our  foeman,  and  give  him  a 

chance  in  the  fight; 
And  we — we  give  quarter  to  no  man,  unless  he's  a 
Protestant  white. 

Unless  he's  a  Protestant  white 
And  his  morals  are  strictly  upright, 
We  darn  him  and  dern  him 
And,  sometimes,  we  burn  him — 
Unless  he's  a  Protestant  white. 

When  the  rest  of  the  world  is  a-sleeping,  the  Knights  of 

the  Ku  Klux  Klan 
Are  softly  and  warily  creeping  to  punish  some  Cath- 
olic man; 
And  a  hundred  Ku  Klux  he-men  will  lynch  him  till  he's 

dead — 
For  this  is  the  land  of  the  freemen,  and  we  want  no 
Pope  at  the  head. 

We  want  no  Pope  at  the  head : 
We  want  a  Kleagle  instead. 
A  Catholic  priest 
Is  the  thing  we  love  least — 
We  want  no  Pope  at  the  head. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  181 

Doing  the  work  that  is  God's,  we  ask  no  favors  of  fate 
But  a  hundred  to  one  for  our  odds,  and  a  Jew  that  we 

can  bait. 
Our  Lord  was  tortured  by  Kikes,  and  we  give  them 

blow  for  blow, 
And  if  it's  not  to  their  likes,  why,  they  know  where 
they  can  go. 

They  know  where  they  can  go — 

Each  Abie  and  Ikie  and  Moe: 

The  Garden  of  Jueden — 

Or  Russia — or  Sweden — 

They  know  where  they  can  go! 

And  when  there's  no  game  bigger,  the  Knights  oi  the 

Ku  Klux  Klan 
Delight  in  lynching  a  Nigger  (the  coons  are  under  our 

ban). 
For  when  life  gets  dull  and  duller,  we  never  give  up 

hope: 
We  search  for  a  man  of  color,  and  dangle  him  from 
a  rope. 

We  dangle  him  from  a  rope: 
We  hold  him  as  good  as  a  Pope; 
To  us  he's  no  worse'n 
Some  synagogue  person — 
We  dangle  him  from  a  rope. 

Scorning  the  coat  of  mail,  we  don  but  our  good  Knight 

shirt; 
Seeking  no  Holy  Grail,  but  an  alien  or  two  to  hurt. 
Grails  for  those  who  may  want   them!    Ours   be   the 

worthier  task 


182  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

To  scare  little  children  and  haunt  them  with  fear  of  the 
hooded  mask! 

To  frighten  with  hood  and  with  mask — 
What  more  could  a  gentleman  ask? 
Unless  he's  a  Nordic, 
Each  Tom,  Harry  or  Dick 
We  frighten  with  hood  and  with  mask. 

A  stalwart  band  of  paraders,  upholding  the  law  and  its 

might, 
We  are  the  fiercest  crusaders  that  ever  rode  through  the 

night. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  and  shameless!   They  shall  die  but 

never  scan 
A  face  of  the  gallant  (and  nameless)  Knights  of  the  Ku 
Klux  Klan. 

So  hey!  for  the  Knights  of  the  Klan! 

(Hooray!) 
They're  strictly  A-mer-i-can! 

(Hooray!) 
Ten  bucks  makes  a  gent 
A  hundred  per  cent. — 
Sing  hey!  for  the  Knights  of  the  Klan! 

MORRIE 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  183 


The  Cynic 

He  is  a  cynic,  a  slow  smile 

Is  all  he  gives  to  "things  worth  while." 

With  men  and  women  he  is  chary: 
Experience  has  made  him  wary. 

He,  by  this  pose,  protects  his  soul 
That  none  may  know  it  is  not  whole. 

He  well  could  spare  his  bitter  pains 
From  those  who  see  how  small  his  gains. 

And  if  you'd  have  the  simple  fact, 
All  his  illusions  are  intact. 


CLAIR 


184 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


To  a  J^gt  of  girls 

When  I  take  you  out  to  dances, 

To  a  movie,  for  a  walk, 
Everywhere,  it  seems,  romance  is; 

Everywhere  is  lovers'  talk. 
"Dear,  I  love  you,"  "Dear,  I  love  you," 

This  the  burden  of  their  plea. 
By  the  sun  that  shines  above  you, 

How  their  chatter  sickens  me! 

When  I  take  you  for  a  bus  ride, 

When  a  car  is  our  caprice, 
Even  then  they  won't  let  us  ride 

In  a  moment's  pleasant  peace. 
"Dear,  I  love  you",  thus  the  suitor, 

"Dear,  I  love  you",  to  his  girl. 
How  I  yearn  to  burn  the  brute,  or 

Chop  to  bits  the  babbling  churl  1 

In  a  cabaret  or  tea  room, 

There  they  sit  and  sob  and  sigh. 
Nowhere  is  there  now  for  me  room, 

Nowhere  room  for  such  as  I. 
"Dear,  I  love  you."    How  it  downs  me! 

How  it  grates  upon  mine  ear! 
For  the  din,  my  darling,  drowns  me 

When  I  say  I  love  you,  dear! 

GEORGE  JESTER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  185 


"Ballade  of  "Big  "Plans 

She  loved  him.     He  knew  it.    And  love  was  a  game  that  two  could 
play  at.— "Julia  Cane"  p.  280. 

Once  the  orioles  sang  in  chorus, 
Once  the  skies  were  a  cloudless  blue. 
Spring  bore  blossoms  expressly  for  us, 
Stars  lined  up  to  spell  "YOU." 
All  the  world  wore  a  golden  hue, 
Life  was  a  thing  to  be  bold  and  gay  at; 
Love  was  the  only  game  I  knew, 
And  love  is  a  game  for  two  to  play  at. 

Now  the  heavens  are  scowling  o'er  us, 
Now  the  blossoms  are  pale  and  few. 
Love  was  a  rose  with  thorns  that  tore  us, 
Love  was  a  ship  without  a  crew. 
Love  is  untender,  and  love  is  untrue, 
Love  is  a  moon  for  a  dog  to  bay  at, 
Love  is  the  Lady-That's-Known-As-Lou, 
And  love  is  a  game  for  two  to  play  at. 

Recollections  can  only  bore  us; 
Now  it's  over,  and  now  it's  through. 
Our  day  is  dead  as  a  dinosaurus. 
Other  the  paths  that  you  pursue. 
What  isi  the  girl  in  the  case  to  do? 
What  is  she  doing  to  spend  her  day  at? 
Fun  demands,  at  a  minimum,  two — 
And  love  is  a  game  that  two  can  play  at. 


186  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

i/envoi  : 

Prince,  I'm  packing  away  the  rue. 

I'll  show  them  something  to  shout  "Hooray"  at. 

I've  got  somebody  else  in  view: 

And  love  is  a  game  that  two  can  play  at. 

DOROTHY   PARKER 


"Planting  "Bulbs 

Beneath  brown  earth  I  gently  press 
The  homely  bulbs  with  confidence 
That  spring  will  bring  in  recompense 
A  rainbow  of  bright  loveliness. 

Alas!  if  all  our  deeds  should  yield 
So  surely  the  reward  we  sought, 
The  future  would  be  early  bought 
And  courage  but  a  cast-off  shield! 

CLAIR 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  187 


In  Q$ano  Qorporc 

Your  lips  are  sullen  refuge 

For  words  whose  strength  has  fled, 

Who,  wearied  of  existence, 
Seek  out  their  dying  bed. 

At  times  you  let  them  wander 

And  linger  in  the  sun, 
Then  hurriedly  you  call  them 

To  slumber,  one  by  one. 

Oh,  you  have  rendered  mobile 

The  grave  where  you  are  laid : 
You  conquer  life  by  living 

A  death  that  man  has  made. 

E.  E. 


188 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


"zAnd  I  S^all  3^£pet  "Trace  This  Tath  tAgai?" 

And  I  shall  never  trace  this  path  again, 

Nor  take  the  brackish  ocean  in  my  eyes 

Along  this  coast,  nor  ever  walled  in  rain, 

Wait  in  these  hemlocks  while  the  high  wind  cries, 

And  you  will  never  keep  your  tryst  with  me. 

Over  and  over  I  must  siay  this  through, 

Lest  I,  forgetting  that  such  things  can  be, 

Come  back  and  wait,  come  back  and  wait  for  you. 

Singers  of  things  gone  by,  of  things  far  gone 
Into  the  dark,  I  claim  for  mine  your  breath; 
All  you  have  sung  and  said,  all  that  is  done 
Beyond  recall,  cover  her  sweets  with  death, 
So  that  in  night,  half  waking,  it  will  not  seem 
She  has  come  back  to  me,  even  in  dream. 


M.  A. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  189 


The  Qerebralists  T>escribe  a  Woman 

MAXWELL  BODENHEIM 

Spontaneous  vacuity  promulges 
From  pool-tortured  eyes. 

Modesty  vies  for  dominance 

With  boredom 

Simulated  to  an  egregious  degree. 

Staid  hands 

Join  in  garrulous  clasp  beneath  a  nose 

Nine-tenths  removed  from  immobility. 

T.  S.  ELIOT 
Crepuscular  benignance  flaunts 

Its  languor  with  perversive  glee 
Arrayed  from  epiglottis  to 

Calm  glabrous  pedal  digets,  she 

Sits.  Witness  the  chaotic  mouth 
Defining  quasi-pious  hymns; 

Observe,  regard,  look  on,  perceive, — 
And  endless  other  synonyms. 

EZRA  POUND 
Head  .    .    . 
Too  long  .   .   . 
Dolichocephalic    .    .    . 


190  THE  CONNING  TOWER   BOOK 

E.  E.  CUMMINGS 

replete  with  sullen  amorousness  her  face 
(always  alert  to  muliebrity) 
obtrudes  a  callous  confidence:  a  trace 

of  psychic  manliness;  to  render  her  free 
from  such  a  taint  were  an  accomplishment 

worthy  of  some  one  versed  in  freudian  lore 
and  blest  with  brain  of  psychologic  bent; 
but  what  is  that  to  you,  i  shall  not  bore 
you  further  with  impetuous  flanconnade. 

anent  hermaphroditic  states  of  mind 

(tho  well  inveigling)  :  rather  let  be  laid 
before  you  what  the  surface-seer  would  find : 
rich  hair  corrupted  with  its  opulence 

and  hands  that  pluck  the  harp  of  innocence. 

SIMONETTA 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  191 


The  (§wamp  <tAngel 

The  moors  are  dark,  the  moors  are  drab 

And  barer  than  any  meadow; 
Along  the  sedge,  there  crawls  a  tiny  crab 

Afraid  of  his  shadow. 

That  old  crone  has  jagged  teeth 

Brown  with  much-chewed  tobacco, 
Her  face  is  wrinkled  like  a  leaf, 

Her  eyes  are  like  dried  sago. 

As  she  sits  the  crab  approaches 

With  claws  that  wave  and  dangle — 
Beneath  the  old  hag's  eye  are  pouches. 

Suddenly  the  crab  bites  her  on  the  ankle! 

My  lines'  limp  and  my  rhymes  are  rough? 

True,  but  at  your  criticisms  I  jest, 
For  a  poem  like  this  is  exactly  the  kind  of  stuff 
Which  will  be  copied  by  the  Current  Poetry  Editor 
of  the  Literary  DigestI 

BERTON  BRALEY 


192  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


To  a  Sentimental  'Poet 

Carry  your  sorrows  to  the  market-place, 
Wrapped  in  fine  tissue,  tied  with  colored  string, 
And  yield  them,  with  your  own  peculiar  grace, 
To  bargain-seekers'  frantic  fingering. 
It  may  be  you  will  make  a  sale  or  two, 
If  some  fastidious  lady  or  her  maid 
Discovers  a  sorrow  of  appropriate  hue 
In  which  her  soul  might  grandly  be  arrayed. 

Thesie  sorrows  are  too  beautifully  designed 
To  fade  and  languish  in  obscurity; 
Carry  them  to  the  mart  where  they  will  find 
Fair  eyes  to  look  on  them  admiringly. 
It  is  a  waste  of  time  for  you  to  mould 
Exquisite  griefs  unless  they  can  be  sold. 

HELENE  MULLINS 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  193 


*A  Critic 

Seeing  her  dance,  he  thought  her  fleet 
White  marvel  of  her  limbs  more  sweet 

Than  love  told  in  a  secret  place, 

Or  silences  that  interspace 
Their  needless  words  when  lovers  meet. 

He  scribbled  on  his  program's  edge: 

"O  grace  like  that  of  windblown  sedge; 
O  beauty  by  slow  time  untouched, 
Borne  back  to  one  whom  time  has  smutched 

Since  first  behind  some  Attic  hedge 

uHe  kissed  your  knees."  .   .   .  The  lights  flared  up ; 

Out  of  her  veils  as  from  a  cup 

She  rose  and  poised "Dark  wine  of  hearts," 

He  wrote,  "young  breath  of  older  arts, 

Your  bounty  bids  a  world  to  sup 

"On  healing  when  its  soul  grows  parched." 
The  spotlights  died;  she  overarched 

The  foots  to  bow;  and  so  he  fell 

To  scrawling:  "Angels  over  hell 

Might  bend  so  while  the  damned  souls  marched." 

*     *     * 

He  typed  at  midnight:  "Grace  La  Verne 
Presents  a  barefoot  dancing  turn 


194  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Which  is  distinguished  by  a  rare 
Technique,  and  that  exotic  air 
Which,  so  it  seems,  few  dancers  learn 

"This  side  the  pond."  .   .   .  From  overhead 
A.  yellow  incandescent  shed 

Strange  fantasies  across  his  page — 

A  rose-crowned  Pierrot  bent  with  age, 
A  wreathed  faun  whose  wreath  was  dead. 

WILLIAM  FOSTER  ELLIOT 


The  £aw  of  ^Averages 

Not  always  to  the  swift  the  race; 
Nor  to  the  strong  the  victory. 
Not  always  to  the  pretty  face 
The  man  of  wealth  or  poesy. 

Not  always  to  the  bold,  the  fair; 

Nor  love  from  those  we  hold  most  dearly. 

Not  always  nothing  to  a  pair; 

But  pretty  nearly. 

TROUBADOUR 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


195 


T^gndom  Advice  to  zMy  £on 

Never  choose  a  windy  day 
For  raking  leaves; 
Nor  neglect  until  it  rains 
Ripened  sheaves. 

Never  tell  your  dearest  friend 

Everything; 

Nor  wed  an  artist  or  a  woman 

Who  can  sing. 

You  may  admire  pretty  women 
All  your  life, 

But  do  not  praise  them  overmuch 
To  your  wife. 

You  may  cry,  "Am  I  a  fool? 

For  heaven  sakes!" 

Wiser  men  than  you,  my  dear, 

Make  these  mistakes. 

CLAIR 


196  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


"Paradise  £ost 

When  Adam  was*  a  handsome  youth 

And  walked  with  God,  and  spoke  the  truth; 

When  Lilith  was  a  vagrant  ghost 

That  swept  the  Garden  with  a  host 

Of  subtle  crying  memories 

At  dusk,  like  birds  among  the  trees; 

When  Eve  was  yet  a  gainly  maid 

That  laughed  and  danced  and  kissed  and  played — 

There  was  a  Tree  and  there  was  Fruit 

As  fair  as  notes  from  an  angel'si  flute; 

But  God  stepped  in  and  he  warned  them,  "No! 

Thus  far.     No  farther  you  may  go: 

You  may  wash  your  feet  in  the  brooklet  there, 

And  wipe  them  off  in  the  Lion's  hair, 

You  may  dance  and  play  the  whole  day  through, 

But  here's  one  thing  that  you  may  not  do: 

You  may  not  taste  the  Tree,  its  Fruit. 

Now  mind  what  I  tell  you,  children.    Scoot." 

Now  Eve  was  handsome  and  Eve  was  sweet 

And  her  hair  fell  down  to  her  tiny  feet, 

And  she  said  to  Adam,  "Well,  I'll  be  beat, 

What's  the  use  of  living  if  a  girl  can't  eat?" 

So  they  ate  the  fruit  in  the  middle  of  the  Garden 

And  God  came  down,  and  they  begged  hisi  pardon, 

But  He  said,  in  a  terrible  thunderous  tone, 

"If  it's  food  you  want,  you'll  raise  your  own." 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  197 

He  kicked  them  out  with  a  dreadful  roar, 
And  set  an  angel  at  Eden's  door; 
And  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span — 
Eve  the  first  woman,  Adam  the  man, 
And  Eve  she  said,  when  June  began, 
"There'll  be  lots  of  cherries  this  year  to  can." 
So  they  lost  the  Garden  and  gained  their  food, 
And  I  hope  the  holy  won't  think  me  rude, 
If  I  say,  as  one  who  loves  a  meal, 
That  Adam  got  the  best  of  the  deal. 

JAKE  FALSTAFF 


Sehnsucht;  or  What  You  Will 

The  day  is  dark; 
My  mind  is  bleary; 
The  window  pane 
With  mist  is  smeary; 
Mine  eyelids  are 
A  little  weary. 

But  when  the  sun 

Shines  bright  and  cheery, 

Can  life  be  sad 

And  dull  and  dreary? 

The  answer's  yes 

To  that  deep  query. 

CORINNA 


198  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


JZight  of  jQove 

Joy  stayed  with  me  a  night — 

Young  and  free  and  fare — 
And  in  the  morning  light 

He  left  me  there. 

Then  Sorrow  came  to  stay, 

And  lay  upon  my  breast; 
He  walked  with  me  in  the  day, 

And  knew  me  best. 

I'll  never  be  a  bride, 

Nor  yet  celibate, 
So  I'm  living  now  with  Pride — 

A  cold  bedmate. 

He  must  not  hear  or  see, 

Nor  could  he  forgive 
That  Sorrow  still  visits  me 

Each  day  I  live. 

DOROTHY  PARKER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  199 


^Allegro 

King  Alexander  led  the  van 
O'er  hill  and  dale  to  Hindostan, 

Heavy  his  heart  and  sad; 
Mid  battle  crash,  mid  battle-plan, 
He  wished  by  Zeus  he  were  the  man 

That  wrote  the  Iliad  1 

A  poet  followed  in  his  train, 

For  share  of  wine,  for  share  of  grain, 

For  share  of  anything; 
With  weary  heart,  with  weary  brain, 
His  menial  service  gave  him  pain, 

He  wished  he  were  the  king! 

The  cup  was  deep,  the  wine  was  red, 
The  morning  came,  the  King  was  dead, 

Half-wrought  his  dream  of  fame. 
Haply  the  poet  died  in  bed. 
Or  haply  knocked  upon  the  head; 

I  do  not  know  his  name. 

So  monarchs  envy  poesy, 

And  poets  fain  would  Princes  be 

To  dwell  in  lordly  hall. 
Examine  well  this  revery, 
Make  what  you  will  thereof:  to  me 

It  has  no  sense  at  all. 

McM, 


200 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Wagnerian  J^ove 

Oh,  you  and  I,  how  solemnly  we  go — 
Loving  each  other,  tragic  and  intense! 
We  suffer  nobly — we  are  torn  by  woe — 
Bravely  in  vain  we  sitorm  fate's  battlements; 
We  pace  the  heights,  as  heroes  did ;  we  tell 
Our  hearts,  their  past,  their  present,  their  hereafter. 
But  oh!  two  solemn  steps  ago  I  fell 
Over  the  brink  of  grandeur  into  laughter. 

For  look:  we  two  were  flippant,  we  were  gay, 

Before  we  loved  in  this  heroic  mood; 

My  mood  has  passed:  I  can  no  longer  play 

Isolde  to  your  Tristan  as  I  should. 

Bring  laughter  to  your  loving,  not  regret — 

Remember,  dear,  we  are  not  legend  yet! 

HELEN  CHOATE 


THB  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  201 


<JtCartha  in  ^Meditation 

Where  could  you  find  another  one 

To  ride  your  storms  as  I  have  done, 

Another  who  would  quench  her  singing 

When  you  were  silent,  or  set  ringing 

Her  little  bells  when  you  were  glad, 

Even  if  her  own  heart  were  sad? — 

One  who  would  coax  the  wick  to  light 

When  you  were  blundering  through  the  night, 

Or  drop  her  knitting  on  the  floor 

If  you  but  knocked,  or  tried  the  door? 

If  you  should  go,  where  could  you  find 

Another  who  would  wear — oh  blind! — 

Proudly  the  rags  that  were  her  role? 

For  silks  you'd  never  sell  your  soul. 

Some  women  there's  no  comforting. 
If  you  should  go,  it  would  not  bring 
Pride,  but  another  pang  to  me 
To  realize  what  a  fool  you'd  be. 

KATHLEEN 


202 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


S°ns — Wfc*  c^mes 

Stones  and  the  shifting  sand, 
Stars  and  the  wheeling  sky, 

Tides  at  the  moon's  command 
Change  not  so  much  as  I. 

Sweeping  a  wider  arc 

Than  the  year  renewed  with  spring, 
Brighter  eyes  to  the  dark 

Than  the  night's  own  brood  I  bring; 

The  wind  that  calls  me  home 
To  share  his  houseless  bliss, 

Knowsi  that  my  courses  roam 
Fiercer,  farther  than  his; 

Moored  not  below — above — 
Trackless  I  thread  the  blue, 

But  that  I'm  thrall  to  love, 
And  love's  unchanged  in  you. 


MIMI 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  203 


£,egend from  Qabell 
(With  due  apologies) 

From  Emmrick's  court  rides  Ariavalt, 
Proud  Anavalt,  sad  Anavalt, 
While  for  their  lost  lord  Anavalt 
Weep  many  silken  ladies. 
But  three  there  are  who  cannot  weep — 
These  three  will  never,  never  sleep, 
Except  to  dream  of  Anavalt, 
Their  cruel  knight  but  fair. 

But  whither  rides  this  Anavalt, 
Proud  Anavalt,  sad  Anavalt, 
That  he  so  willingly  can  leave 
So  many  silken  ladies? 
Oh,  weep,  poor  pretty  ladies,  weep — 
Except  you  three  who  cannot  sleep 
Unless  you  dream  of  Anavalt, 
That  cruel  knight  but  fair. 

Oh,  he  would  see  the  Elle  Maid  fair, 
The  Elle  Maid  with  her  long,  gold  hair, 
The  Elle  Maid  with  the  mocking  air, 
Whom  few  men  yet  have  seen. 
And  what  cares  he  if  maidens  weep, 
And  if  three  ladies  cannot  sleep, 
Except  to  dream  of  Anavalt, 
That  cruel  knight  but  fair. 


204  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

For  there  are  things  he  would  forget, 
Proud  Anavalt,  sad  Anavalt, 
And  memories  ugly  and  ill-met 
That  come  to  vex  his  dreams. 
The  face  of  one  who  cannot  weep 
Will  ever  come  to  vex  the  sleep 
Of  conscious-tortured  Anavalt, 
Her  cruel  knight  but  fair. 

Past  dragons  grim  rides  Anavalt, 

Proud  Anavalt,  sad  Anavalt, 

And  courteously  conquers  all 

Who  seek  to  bar  his  way. 

Past  myths  and  legends  old  and  grim, 

Through  woods  and  marshes  dank  and  dim, 

Undaunted  still  rides  Anavalt, 

The  cruel  knight  but  fair. 

At  last  he  finds  the  Elle  Maid  fair, 
The  Elle  Maid  with  the  mocking  air, 
The  Elle  Maid  with  the  long,  gold  hair, 
Whom  few  men  yet  have  seen. 
"I  think  that  we  are  wisely  met, 
I  think  that  here  I  shall  forget," 
Thus  blithely  speaks  Lord  Anavalt, 
The  cruel  knight  but  fair. 

When  laughs  the  Elle  Maid  tall  and  fair, 
The  mocking  Elle  Maid  thin  as  air, 
The  Elle  Maid  who  is  but  a  mask — 
And  offers  him  her  lips. 
And  here  at  last  he  finds  his  peace, 
A  dull  content  that  cannot  cease, 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  20 5 

And  satisfied  is  Anavalt, 
That  cruel  knight  but  fair. 

The  Elle  Maid  has  no  heart  to  care, 
No  body  that  can  grow  less  fair, 
No  mind  to  think,  no  soul  to  ache, 
Like  all  the  silken  ladies. 
Says  Anavalt  to  her,  "My  dear, 
I  think  we  shall  do  nicely  here," 
And  once  again  he  kisses  her — 
This  very  perfect  lady. 

MYRRIL 


^Bay  berry  T>ips 

I  show  you  my  bayberry  dips; 

We  speak  of  their  manifold  charms — 
But  you  only  think  of  my  lips, 

And  I  of  your  sheltering  arms. 

Yet  now  that  I  rest  in  your  arms, 

And  you  have  drunk  deep  of  my  lips 

Say,  are  there  not  manifold  charms 
In  the  beauty  of  bayberry  dips? 


ELLEN  VANE 


206  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


^Heresy  for  a  Qlassroom 

Green  willows  are  for  girls  to  study  under 

When  that  green  lady,  Spring,  strolls  down  the  street. 

Look  out  the  window,  Jean,  look  out  and  wonder 

About  their  unseen  earth-embedded  feet: 

Under  the  dark  uncoloured  mouldy  clay 

Where  willow  roots  are  thrust,  their  life  is  drawn 

Up  through  their  limbs,  to  burst  in  bud,  and  sway 

Slow-shaken  green  festoons  above  the  lawn. 

So  never  doubt  that  gloom  turns  into  light 

As  winter  into  April,  or  as  gloom 

Breaks  on  the  barren  branches  overnight — 

Little  enough  is  learned  in  any  room 

Wiih  black-board  walls,  on  afternoons  like  these: 

O  Jean,  look  out  the  windows)  at  the  trees! 

ROLFE  HUMPHRIES 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  207 


zAndre  Masses 

Along  the  sunlit  Nepperhan, 

That  clear  September  day, 
A  rider  drew  his  bridle-rein 

And  paused  beside  the  way. 
Two  children  at  a  farmhouse  door 

He  hailed — they  quickly  ran 
To  give  him  water  from  the  well 

Along  the  Nepperhan. 

They  brought  him  water  from  the  well- 
Small  David  held  the  rein 

And  wondered  why  that  cavalier 
Rode  down  that  country  lane; 

Shy  Sally  watched  the  stranger  drink 
Before  the  farmhouse  door, 

And  wondered  why  so  close  he  wrapped 
The  swanskin  cloak  he  wore. 

He  drank,  and  from  the  saddle  leaned 

To  hand  a  sixpence  down 
To  Sally;  then  of  David  asked 

"How  far  to  Tarrytown — 
To  Tarrytown  how  long  the  road?" 

"Four  miles,"  the  lad  replied. 
"I  did  not  think,"  the  stranger  said, 

"It  was  so  long  a  ride." 


208  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Ah,  rider  in  the  swanskin  cloak, 

If  short  or  long  the  way, 
You  shall  not  come  to  Tarrytown 

This  fair  September  day. 
But  all  those  days  these  two  shall  tell 

About  the  stranger-man 
Who  asked  for  water  from  the  well 

Beside  the  Nepperhan. 

G.  S.  B. 


To  a  Qirl  with  Tlvo  £yes 

If  ever  I  shall  go  to  hell, 

I  think  that  I  shall  fool 
The  devil,  and  defy  the  heat — 

Because  your  eyes  are  cool. 

Or  if  to  heaven  I  shall  go, 

I  think  I  shall  not  fear 
To  gaze  into  the  face  of  God — 

Because  your  eyes  are  clear. 

Oh,  just  because  your  eyes  are  cool, 

Because  your  eyes  are  clear, 
You  are  my  hope  of  happiness 

In  heaven,  or  hell — or  here! 

GEORGE  JESTER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  209 


Sun  Qo  "Parc/i  .   .   . 

Sun  go  parch  or  cloud  go  pour, 
'Tis  no  sky  I'm  thinking  of. 
I  go  singing,  I  that  am 
Off  to  meet  my  love. 

Tower  go  fall  or  roof  go  flame, 
Ask  me  neither  thought  nor  tear. 
I  am  thinking  what  to  say 
When  I  greet  my  dear. 

Woe  is  all  the  world,  it  seems, 
This  man  dies,  and  that  man  will. 
Woe  is  me,  how  can  I  know 
If  she  love  me  still? 

Yet  ah!  mourners,  chide  me  not 
Grayly  as  your  hearse  creeps  by, 
That  I  caper,  that  I  hum, 
That  I  cannot  sigh! 

I  am  off  to  meet  my  love, 
I  shall  have  no  word  to  say, 
I  shall  greet  her  mouth  to  mouth 
In  a  singing  way. 

LEONARD  CLINE 


210 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


nAn  explanation 

When  I  was  a  boy  and  I  went  to  school 
They  learned  me  the  words  of  the  Gilded  Rule : 
"Remember  your  manners  and  always  do 
What  People  of  Consequence  tell  you  to." 
A  college  professor  has  brains  to  spare 
(Though  hardly  as  much  as  a  millionaire), 
And  sure,  when  his  backing  is  good  and  strong, 
A  clergyman  never  would  guide  you  wrong; 
So  what  should  I  do  when  I'm  just  a  cop 
And  he  is  a  Reverend  Archbu/zo/>? 

Enough:  'Tis  the  word  of  a  Grand  Bashaw; 

You  needn't  to  bother  about  the  law. 

He  knows  what  is  black  and  he  knows  what's  white; 

Whatever  he  wants  you  to  do  is  right. 

He  told  me  they  wasn't  to  speak  at  all. 

You  don't  need  a  warrant  to  clear  a  hall. 

He  told  me  to  tell  them  to  stir  their  stumps; 

When  "Clubs!"  is  the  order,  then  clubs  is  trumps. 

What  else  would  it  be  when  I'm  just  a  cop 

And  he  is  a  Reverend  Archbishop} 

And  oh,  'tis  a  blessing  to  know  the  whim 
Of  wise  and  infallible  folks  like  him! 
And  if  he  should  tell  me  to  take  and  go 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  21 1 

And  shut  up  a  play  or  a  movie  show, 

To  break  up  a  dance  or  perhaps  a  strike 

Or  burn  a  few  books  that  he  failed  to  like, 

To  lock  a  few  lads  in  a  dungeon  cell 

And  smash  a  few  heads  in  the  bargain, — well, 

What  else  would  I  do  when  I'm  just  a  cop 

And  he  is  a  Reverend  Archbishop? 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 


The  Qheerful  Cfiver 

I  would  give  thee,  my  love,  fair  things; 

I  would  give  thee  jade  and  turquoise, 

Sandalwood  and  stained  ivory,  diamonds, 

And  a  bowl  of  amethyst. 

I  would  give  thee  a  cloak  of  ermine, 

And  a  scarf,  all  of  silk,  threaded  with  platinum. 

All  of  these  rare  things,  and  fair, 

Would  I  give  thee,  my  love,  and  more. 

In  the  mean  time,  accept  this  New  Year's  card 

As  a  token  of  my  esteem. 

JOHN  MCMASTER 


212  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


Shopping  T>ay 

Beauty  blue  and  beauty  white, 
Beauty  of  the  day  and  night, 
Be  of  her  the  flesh  and  bone, 
Be  her  beauty  and  your  own. 

Make  her  step  be  light  and  proud 
Going  in  a  gown  of  cloud, 
Make  her  scarves  of  trailing  blue 
Cut  from  each  day's  sky  anew. 

Beauty,  rob  as  for  a  goddess 
Autumn  of  her  brightest  bodice; 
Be  she  true  or  be  she  flirt, 
Of  a  green  tree  make  the  skirt. 

Weave  from  dusk  and  dawn  to  measure 
Fairy  frocks  when  she's  in  pleasure, 
Or  if  she  must  walk  in  pain 
Drape  about  her  silver  rain. 

Set  upon  her  midnight  hair 
Lighted  stars  to  scatter  care, 
Make  of  mountain  stream  her  train, 
And  her  plumes  of  waving  grain. 


THB  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  213 

If  she  walks  in  heaven  or  hell, 
Beauty  dress  her  body  well. 
Beauty  blue  and  beauty  white 
Be  her  own  by  day  and  night. 

ORRICK  JOHNS 


ffir  ^(inette 

I  comb  your  hair,  I  wash  your  face, 

I  button  up  your  frock; 
But  at  the  door  of  your  heart's  place 

I  only  knock. 

I  teach  you  work  and  play,  and  fold 

Your  hands  at  night  for  prayer, 
But  something  stirs  I  cannot  hold — 

Like  sunlight  there. 

I  open  all  the  fairy-lands 

That  I  have  ventured  through, 
But  never  touch  with  clumsy  hands 

The  fairy  you! 

MIMI 


214 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


"Perhaps 

The  linen  on  my  pillow 
Is  of  a  silky  thread; 
But  on  its  soothing  texture, 
Restless,  I  toss  my  head. 

Upon  some  love-sick  maiden's 
Loom  has  the  web  been  spun; 
Some  sad-eyed  girl  has  borne  it 
To  whiten  in  the  sun. 

Perhaps  it  is  her  sorrow 
That  keeps  me  from  my  rest — 
My  own  is  deeply  hidden, 
'Tis  safe  within  my  breast. 

Mayhap  it  is  her  trouble — 
My  own  I  have  forgot — 
That  keeps  me  wan  and  wakeful 
So  late  upon  my  cot. 

JULIA  GLASGOW 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  215 


<§ome  'Beautiful  Jitters 

OBSERVATION 

If  I  don't  drive  around  the  park, 
I'm  pretty  sure  to  make  my  mark. 
If  I'm  in  bed  each  night  by  ten, 
I  may  get  back  my  looks  again. 
If  I  abstain  from  fun  and  such, 
I'll  probably  amount  to  much. 
But  I  shall  stay  the  way  I  am, 
Because  I  do  not  give  a  damn. 

SOCIAL  NOTE 

Lady,  lady,  should  you  meet 
One  whose  ways  are  all  discreet, 
One  who  murmurs  that  his  wife 
Is  the  lodestar  of  his  life, 
One  who  keeps  assuring  you 
That  he  never  was  untrue, 
Never  loved  another  one    .    .    . 
Lady,  lady,  better  run. 

NEWS  ITEM 

Men  seldom  make  passes 
At  girls  who  wear  glasses. 


216  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

INTERVIEW 

The  ladies  men  admire,  I've  heard, 

Would  shudder  at  a  wicked  word. 

Their  candle  gives  a  single  light; 

They'd  rather  stay  at  home  at  night. 

They  do  not  keep  awake  till  three, 

Nor  read  erotic  poetry. 

They  never  sanction  the  impure, 

Nor  recognize  an  overture. 

They  shrink  from  powders  and  from  paints  .   . 

So  far,  I  have  had  no  complaints. 

COMMENT 

Oh,  life  is  a  glorious  cycle  of  song, 

A  medley  of  extemporanea; 
And  love  is  a  thing  that  can  never  go  wrong; 

And  I  am  Marie  of  Rumania. 

RESUME 

Razors  pain  you; 

Rivers  are  damp; 
Acids  stain  you; 

And  drugs  cause  cramp. 
Guns  aren't  lawful; 

Nooses  all  give; 
Gas  smells  awful ; 

You  might  as  well  live. 

DOROTHY  PARKER 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  217 


SonS  °f  Travel 

Oh,  London  is  a  fine  town, 

With  chimney-pots  all  in  rows, 
And  London  beer  is  good  beer, 

And  swell  are  London  clothes; 
One  can  smoke  in  the  Underground, 

And  have  tea  at  a  matinee — 
So  why  should  any  one  ever  want 

To  go  back  to  the  U.  S.  A.? 

Oh,  Paris  is  a  fine  town 

Where  the  pretty  girls  wear  no  clothes- 
(At  least  they  don't  at  the  Moulin  Rouge 

And  such-like  similar  shows!)  — 
Champagne  costs*  next  to  nothing, 

And  taxi-fares  are  a  joke — 
So  why  should  any  one  ever  think 

Of  going  back  home  till  he's  broke? 

Oh,  London  town  and  Paris 

Are  mighty  fine  towns  to  see — 
So  why  should  any  one  ever  dream 

Of  a  place  where  he'd  rather  be? 
Why  should  he  sit  in  the  Cafe  Royal, 

Why  should  he  sit  at  the  Dome, 
Dreaming  always  of  Westchester  roads 

And  Westchester  hillsi  at  home? 


218  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

Mount  Airy  is  a  small  hill 

With  houses  up  and  down, 
And  one  of  them  is  my  house, 

A  mile  from  Croton  town: 
There'll  be  nothing  to  see  but  a  patch  of  river, 

Gold  in  the  slanting  sun, 
And  the  last  bright  wind-blown  leaves  of  the  oak  trees 

Falling,  one  by  one! 

London  and  Paris  are  big,  big  places, 

And  rich  with  what  has  been, 
But  my  heart  is  a  little  heart 

And  cannot  take  them  in — 
I  want  to  sit  on  my  porch  in  the  dusk 

And  hear  the  katydids'  song: 
Mount  Airy  is  a  little  place, 

And  that's  where  I  belong! 

F   D. 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


219 


The  ^Armistice  T>ay  'Parade 

"I  shall  not  march,"  said  the  Major, 
"In  the  Armistice  Day  Parade. 
It  ill  becomes  a  man  of  my  station — 
Different  matter,  man  from  the  ranks — 
To  fall  in  step  with  the  foes  of  his  nation: 
I  refer  to  these  pacifist  cranks 
Who'd  give  us  a  Peace  at  any  Cost, 
Think  of  it,  after  the  men  we've  lost! 
The  gallant  lads  we've  lost. 
I'm  a  bit  upset,  as  you  can  see. 
They've  rather  spoiled  the  day  for  me, 
If  the  truth  were  known,"  said  the  Major. 

"Now  Armistice  Day,"  said  the  Major, 

"These  chaps  don't  get  it  right. 

'Twas  set  apart  by  the  U.  S.  A. 

Not  so  much  to  think  and  pray, 

As  lest  we  forget  the  glorious  dead 

Who  fell  in  the  cause  of  right,"  he  said, 

"And  those  two  minutes  at  11  A.  M., 

D'ye  know  how  you  ought  to  make  use  of  them? 

Just  keep  in  mind  the  mud  and  the  guns 

And  Flanders  Field,  and  the  stinking  Huns, 

And  you  can't  go  wrong,"  said  the  Major. 


220  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 

"It's  a  solemn  day,"  said  the  Major, 

"And  it  mustn't  be  taken  so  light." 

"This  Peace  on  Earth,"  said  the  Major, 

"This  Peace  on  Earth,  Good  Will  to  Men, 

Is  a  beautiful  motto  to  work  in  yarn 

But  written  out  in  ink  with  a  pen — 

Oh,  well,  hang  it  all,  where  men  are  men 

It  just  isn't  mentioned,"  said  the  Major. 

"Peace  on  earth  is  a  fine  ideal, 

But  men  are  human  and  life  is  real. 

Take  the  army,  for  instance,"  said  the  Major. 

"Peace  on  earth  wouldn't  work  worth  a  darn 

On  the  army,  now  would  it?"  said  the  Major. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  said  the  Major, 

"Ha,  ha,  not  worth  a  darn." 

"Take  a  man  like  me,"  said  the  Major, 
"A  man  that's  trained  at  some  expense 
To  jerk  his  elbow  and  click  his  heels, 
He  can't  sit  around  like  a  hatching  hen, 
He  must  have  a  little  war  now  and  then — 
I  mean,  of  course,  a  war  of  defence — 
Or  he  can't  digest  his  meals. 
And  now  here  comes  these  pacifist  Yids 
And  drag  in  peace,  and  spoil  the  procession. 
Good  Lord,  a  soldier's  wife  and  kids 
Have  got  to  eat,  and  war's  a  profession 
Same  as  clergy,"  said  the  Major. 
"If  you  went  and  abolished  war,"  said  he, 
"Where  in  hell  would  the  army  be? 
Dear  me,  yes,"  said  the  Major, 
"Where  would  the  army  be?" 

NANCY  BOYD 


THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  221 


Instructions  for  zMy  Jnineral 

When  I  am  dead,  be  certain  that  you  bring 

A  coffin  long  and  wide  enough  to  hold 

All  of  my  favorite  griefs;  and  in  one  fold 

Of  my  white  gown  conceal  some  sharp-edged  thing, 

So  that  my  body  have  no  less  of  pain 

Than  it  has  grown  accustomed  to  endure; 

The  lilies  that  you  bring  must  not  be  pure, 

But  each  must  have  upon  it  some  light  stain 

Of  blood  or  dust;  for  I  have  never  had 

A  perfect  thing  to  hold;  and  if  you  make 

A  farewell  speech,  be  careful,  for  my  sake, 

That  none  of  your  low  words  be  very  sad. 

I  want  no  unfamiliar  thing  to  be 

Laid  in  my  coffin  when  you  bury  me. 

H.  M. 


222  THE  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK 


<lA  ^Mother  to  the  ^Mother  of  Cjod 

Mary,  as  my  baby  lies 

Warm  upon  my  breast  in  sleep, 
Fears  within  my  heart  arise 

At  the  lovely  trust  I  keep. 
Hear  this  little  wailing  cry 

Lifted  to  the  heavens  afar, 
Under  Bethlehem's  boundless  sky — 

Under  Jesus'  very  star! 

Of  the  way  his  feet  will  go 

I  can  see  no  more  than  you 
In  the  stable  long  ago 

Glimpsed  the  man  that  Jesus  grew. 
Lo,  I  cannot  change  the  plan 

When  Gethsemane  is  near, — 
Mothers  save  nor  God  nor  man 

The  appointed  Cross  and  Spear. 

Hands  that  hold  him  closer  now 

Must  unfold  and  leave  him  free, — 
Serving  him  I  take  no  vow 

For  the  person  he  will  be: 
Set  no  seal  upon  his?  lips, 

Pre-conceive  no  shrine,  no  law — 
Fearless  if  his  banner  dips 

At  a  Sign  I  never  saw. 


THB  CONNING  TOWER  BOOK  223 

***** 

Hands  that  hold  him  closer  yet 

Just  to-night  can  know  his  need — 
At  my  breast  his  lips  are  wet — 

What  strange  god  is  this  I  feed?  .  .  . 
Mary,  Mother,  counsel  me, 

See  how  young  and  fair  he  lies! 
Such  a  little  way  I  see 

Where  the  hills  of  Life  arise. 

MIMI 


Anticipation 


Long  have  I  lived  by  the  side  of  the  sea, 

And  never  have  ventured  upon  it. 

I  wonder  what  things  might  have  happened  to  me 

If  ever  I  had  sailed  on  it. 

Long  have  I  lived  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
And  gazed  with  desire  at  the  summit. 
But  here  I  shall  stay,  for  I  like  it  this  way 
Much  more  than  I  should  if  I'd  dumb  it. 

JONATHAN  SLOCUM 


on  the 
^Manufacture  of  This  ^Book^ 

The  design  for  the  cover  of  this  book  was 
drawn  by  Melville  Phillips  of  New  York. 
It  was  printed  from  two  color  plates  on 
paper  which  was  then  pasted  on  bulk-boards 
and  bound,  with  white  buckram  as  the  back- 
piece,  by  the  H.  Wolff  Estate  of  New  York. 
The  end-pieces ;  or  fly-leaves,  are  a  special 
imported  Japanese  paper.  The  paper  used 
in  the  body  of  the  book  is  antique  laid, 
the  word  "laid"  being  used  to  describe  the 
weave  in  the  paper,  and  was  furnished  by 
the  Reading  Paper  Mills,  of  Reading,  Pa. 
The  type  used  generally  is  12  point 
Caslon  leaded,  the  word  "leaded"  im- 
plying that  slim  bits  of  lead  have  been 
placed  between  the  lines  of  type  in  order 
to  create  an  open  appearance  on  the  page. 
The  rules  used  ornamentally  on  the  pages 
are  used  here  for  one  of  the  first  times  in 
a  book;  they  were  recently  imported  from 
Germany  by  Elmer  Adler.  All  of  the 
printing  luas  done  by  the  Penn  Printery  of 
Wilkes-Barre,  Pa.  Readers  who  are  curious 
about  any  of  the  typographic  ideas  or 
materials  employed  in  the  manufacture  of 
this  book  are  invited  to  consult  with  the 
publishers. 


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